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NOTES 



or 



HOSPITAL LIFE 



FROM NOVEMBER, 1861, TO AUGUST, 1863. 



"Je viens de faire un ouvrage." 

"Comment! un livre?" 

"Non; pas un liTre; je no suia paa si bete!' 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1864. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern 
District of Pennsylvania. 






x.-^ 



^>^ 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Dedication, v 

Introduction by Bishop Potter, . . . . vii 

Preface, xi 

Introduction, . . . , . , , .17 

Our Daily Work, 23 

A Morning at the Hospital, 38 

The Two Armies, 43 

The Contrast, 47 

Browning, 63 

Brown, 69 

Darlington, 75 

"Little Corning," 93 

Gavin, 105 

Christmas at the U. S. A. Hospital, , , . 114 

Poor Jose, 128 

Robinson, 139 

The Return to the Regiment, 157 

A Visit to the Wards, 168 

Our Gettysburg Men, 193 

(iii) 



TO 

THE PKIVATES 

OP THE 



DARING IN DANGER,* 

PATIENCE IN privation; 

SELF-SACRIFICE IN SUFFERING," 

AND LOYALTY IN LOVE FOR THEIR COUNTRY, 

HAVE GIVEN TO THE WORLD A NOBLE EXAMPLE, 
WORTHY OF ALL IMITATION, 

These Notes are aflfectionately Dedicated, 

BY ONE WHOSE PRIVILEGE IT IS TO 

HAVE BEEN PERMITTED 

TO MINISTER TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED AMONG THEM, 

IN ONE OP OUR 

CITY HOSPITALS. 



INTEODUCTION, 



These " Notes " need no introduction. They were 
jotted down, from day to day, as a private journal, 
and are printed only at the instance of friends. 
The undersigned greatly mistakes if they are not 
welcomed as an accession to our literature. On 
every page they betray a large and elegant culture, 
and what is better, they manifest a profound sym- 
pathy in all that is human, and a keen insight into 
nature and into man's heart. Felicities of thought 
and expression abound, vivid pictures of incidents 
and life-like sketches of character. They are full 
of spirit, of wisdom, and of right feeling. 

They rise, too, to the level of a great subject. 
In the conflict which convulses our land, how 
many souls are stirred — how many hearts made 
to burn ! We cannot envy him or her who can 
look on such a scene — on the principles involved, 

(vii) 



Vlll INTRODUCTION. 

and the interests at stake, and yet not feel kindled 
to a higher life. We can regard but with compas- 
sion those who see in this war only blunders to be 
criticised, absurdities to be ridiculed, crimes to be 
gloated over, or life and property to be deplored. 

If, in the liberty and peace of those who live in 
this land, and of the millions who are to come 
after, there be anything precious; if there is any- 
thing sacred and venerable in the unity of a great 
people and in the sovereignty with which they 
have been charged by solemn compact; if there 
is any claim upon us as men and as Christians, 
in behalf of a race that has suffered long and 
sorely at our hands, and that now, for the first 
time, seems to behold the light of hope, then is 
there that at stake which should move every one 
to sympathy and to help. 

Our hearts must bleed as we gaze on the vast 
suffering; but "we buy our blessings at a price." 
Hitherto it has been our great danger that we 
have had little save sunshine. Prosperity, great 
and uninterrupted, is perilous for nations as 
well as individuals. It is amidst thunder-clouds, 
and storms, that the oak gets strength and deep 
root ; it is while battling in tempestuous seas that 



INTRODUCTION. IX 

the vessel proves and at the same time confirms 
her capacity. So in this gigantic strife, powers 
will be elicited, and a trust in God and in grand 
principles developed, which will be, we trust, our 
fortress and our high tower hereafter. 

It is one of the merits of this writer that, with 
a heart alive to the wants and wretchedness of 
the sick and wounded, she joins discernment of 
the mighty questions involved. She sees, with 
exquisite relish, the picturesque in character and 
incident ; she has an eye, too, for the deep wealth 
of aifection and generous sympathy that lie em- 
bedded in the roughest natures — for the flashes 
of merriment and drollery which lighten up the 
darkest scenes — for the delicate tastes and noble 
sentiments that often possess those whose hands 
have been hardened by toil, and whose minds (in 
the judgment of too many) must needs have been 
debased by habitual contact with vulgar pursuits. 
Hers is a heart which can feel that which makes 
all the world akin — which can see that labor does 
not degrade, but rather elevates those who pursue 
it in the true spirit ', and that nothing can be more 
preposterous in a land like ours, which is made 
and glorified by the joint handiwork of God and 



X INTRODUCTION. 

man, than to decry or despise it. These pages 

are instinct with faith in God and in our people ; 

with hope for the future; with a charity that 

never faileth. 

A. Potter. 

Philadelphia, February, 1864. 



PREFACE. 



A LITERARY friend said to me some time since, 
" One of the greatest evils of this rebellion, is the 
manner in which it is tainting our literature, 
science, and arts. If they would only fight it 
out and confine it to fighting, bad as it is, we 
might rise from its efi'ects ; but this flood of war- 
literature will so set the mind of the next genera- 
tion into a military groove, that poetry, refined 
taste, and love for the beautiful, will be lost in 
the roar of literary drums and mental musketry.'' 

"And did you imagine," said I, "that such a 
rebellion could be carried on without affecting 
and injuring every nerve and fibre of the whole 
country ? Do you not see that it is a moral 
Pyaemia — a poisoning of the veins of the entire 
nation? And although we trust the disease may 
be arrested ere it destroy national existence, still 
the system suffers throughout ; and the result must 

(Xi) 



Xii PREFACE. 

be vapid volumes, paltry pictures, and silly state- 
ments of so-called science. But granting that it 
is to be deplored — that the military mind should 
take the place of the literary one, I must break 
a lance with you on the question whether, in so 
doing, ' poetry, refined taste, and love for the 
beautiful ' must of necessity be lost. I will not 
grant it. At the opening of the war I thought, 
with you, that the finer feelings of our nature were 
exclusively the property of the higher classes ; but 
two years' experience in a military hospital, where 
men appear mentally as well as physically in " un- 
dress uniform," has shown me the utter fallacy of 
such a theory ; and now I do not hesitate to aflirm 
that I have seen there as much unwritten poetry, 
tender feeling, aye, and love for the beautiful, as I 
have ever witnessed among the same number of 
people gathered together at any time, or in any 
place." 

Sickly sentimentality, whether shown in words 
or actions, for " our poor, suffering soldiers," is cer- 
tainly a thing to be much deprecated ; but, on the 
other hand, is not a hard, gregarious view of them 
to be equally avoided ? 

I do not ask to raise them to more, but not»to 



TREFACE. Xlll 

sink them to less than men. Our army is no " Cor- 
poration without a soul;" it is a mass of units — a 
collection of beating hearts, throbbing pulses, and 
straining nerves, which ask and need our love and 
sympathy, and surely they should not ask in vain. 

I have anticipated your question, dear reader, 
" "Why bore us with your conversation with your 
friend?" Simply because that conversation has 
led to the further bore of this volume. These 
notes were jotted down as the incidents occurred; 
they are a simple statement of facts simply stated. 
The only object of collecting them at present is 
that, as my friend's feeling appears to be a general 
one, it seemed possible that these instances might 
prove, in some small degree, the converse of the 
proposition ; and, although at any other time quite 
unworthy of publication, the intense and absorbing 
desire, at present, to obtain particulars of even the 
most trifling circumstances connected with the war, 
has led me to hope that they may not be wholly 
Avithout interest. 

In conclusion, I must regret the necessity of any 

mention of self; but the nature of the subject 

requires this, and without it, very frequently the 

point to be established would be lost. I have 

2 



Xiv PREFACE. 

omitted many incidents from this very objection, 
but it would be unjust to the cause which I have 
at heart to do more, and I must therefore trust 
that the reader will believe me, when I say that 
any such allusion arises from necessity, not taste. 
August, 1863. 



Florian. — A soldier, didst thou say, Horatio ? What ! Is't from 
the ranlis you mean? Faugh! 

Horatio. — Marry, I did! A soldier and a man; and, being a 
soldier, all the manlier, maybe. 
We " Faugh ! " and turn our precious noses to the wind, 
As breath from ranks, perforce must be rank breath ; 
But, mark, my lord, God made the ranks, and more, 
God died for those same ranks, as well as men of rank. 

Old Play. 



(16) 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE 



INTKODUCTION. 

Life in a hospital ! When and where ? Now and 
here. Now, in the year of our Lord one thousand 
eight hundred and sixty-three ; here, in this good 
city of Philadelphia, whose generous outpouring of 
her sons, for the cause, nearest all our hearts, can 
only be matched by the loving tenderness with 
which she receives and cherishes them, on their 
return, maimed and mutilated, to their homes 
amongst us. Every one, who knows anything of 
the subject at the present moment, is well aware, 
that no matter where it may be situated, whether 
opened at the first need, or the creation of yester- 
day, still " our Hospital" will be, to the speaker, the 
most perfect in arrangement, discipline, and ven- 
tilation; the medical staif connected with it the 
most efficient, skilful and faithful ; the corps of sub- 
ordinates the most competent, systematic and tho- 
rough. Such is human nature, and we all find the 
weakness a pardonable one. 

2* (17) 



18 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LITE. 

How natural it seems to be here ! How naturally 
we accept this strange daily life ! And yet, how 
unnatural it would have seemed two years ago, 
could we have lifted but one little corner of that 
mystic veil, which so blessedly prevents even a 
glimpse of the coming hour; how unnatural, I say, 
would it have seemed to us, to be standing, as we 
are at the present moment, in a little domain of 
our own, consecrated exclusively to us; turning to 
all sorts of utterly unwonted avocations; any and 
every sort of service which may bring comfort or 
aid to those who were strangers to us, till this very 
day, and after a few to-morrows, will, in all proba- 
bility, be strangers to us forevermore. 

And yet, how glad we are to do it, and they to 
have it done. " Stop there, my friend,^' you say. 
'"And they to have it done.' Is that so? Are 
the men quite as glad to have it done, as you to 
do it ?" Ah, you have heard that cry. I too have 
heard it, and will tell you frankly, and as far as 
l^ossible, impartially, my own conclusion, after 
careful examination of that point : 

" Women are not needed in these hospitals." 

" Depend upon it, ladies are a bore here." 

" The men are victimized." 

All these and many similar remarks have I heard, 
and they have led me earnestly to look at the ques- 
tion in all its bearings. The petty jealousy of man 
and his work; the narrowness and littleness of mind 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 19 

which bristles with indignant anger at the sugges- 
tion of man's superiority, are all unworthy of the 
great cause we have at heart. But one question is 
before us. Are the facts so, or are they not ? If, 
after every effort honestly to get at the truth, it 
shall appear that there really is no need of woman 
and her work; that these enormous collections of 
suffering and dying human beings, massed together 
by this ruthless rebellion, with its wretched results, 
actually and positively, may be carried on better, 
more practically, more systematically, without her 
aid and co-operation, then let her promptly and 
decidedly retire; let her do it without anger, with- 
out clamor, without bitterness; she is not needed. 
If this be so, let her turn into some other channel 
the love and tenderness which she longs to lavish 
on those who are giving their heart's blood to 
defend and protect her. 

If this be so, I say; but if on the other hand it 
shall appear that her presence is not productive of 
disorder; not distasteful to the men; that she is 
not only sanctioned, but welcomed by the authori- 
ties in charge, then let her go "right onward," 
unmindful of coldness, calumny, or comment from 
the world outside, strong in the consciousness of 
singleness of aim and purity of purpose. And, 
more than this, if the Dread Day may show, that 
through her kneeling at the bedside of one sinning 
soul, through her teaching of 



20 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

" truths, not ' her's,' indeed, 
But set within ' his ' reach by means of ' her,' " 

the dark Door of Death has been changed into the 
White Gate of Life Everlasting, shall it not then 
be granted that women were needed ? 

This is not the time or place to enter upon the 
great question of woman's mission. She has her 
work, and the time is coming when she shall be 
permitted to do it. God. in His own marvellous 
way, is, even now, causing the dawn of that blessed 
day to break, when, rising above prejudice and 
party spirit, she shall be allowed to take her true 
place, and be, in the highest sense of the word, a 
*' Sister" to the suffering and the sorrowful; to 
assert and claim her " rights," the only rights of 
which a woman may justly be proud. 

" What are Woman's Rights ? " 
" The right to wake when others sleep ; 
The right to watch, the right to weep ; 
The right to comfort in distress, 
The right to soothe, the right to bless ; 
The right the widow's heart to cheer. 
The right to dry the orphan's tear ; 
The right to feed and clothe the poor. 
The right to teach them to endure. 

" The right when other friends have flown, 
And left the suflferer all alone, 
To kneel that dying couch beside, 
And meekly point to Him who died ; 
The right a happy home to make 
In any clime, for Jesu's sake ; 
Rights such as these, are all we crave. 
Until our last — a quiet grave." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 21 

Anxious, as I have said, to discover whether our 
presence in the hospital was really acceptable or 
not, I have closely watched the countenances of 
the men on the entrance of the lady visitors. I 
speak not now of myself, for I am merely one, and 
a most insignificant one, among many 3 but I can 
truly say, that at all such times I have never, but 
once, seen other than an expression of pleasure, 
and the warm greeting is apparently most sincere. 
The one instance to which I allude, is certainly no 
argument against the presence of ladies; it extended 
to every one who approached his bedside, and w^as 
produced by intense physical anguish, acting on a 
highly nervous organization. I merely name it 
now, because it is, as I have said, the sole instance 
in which we were not welcomed and urged to stay. 
And yet, the very words, in that suffering, pleading 
tone, " Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very 
wretched," proved that it was no dislike to us 
personally, but merely that terrible state, too well 
known to any one of a very nervous temperament, 
when even the stirring of the air by the bedside 
seems a pain. Subsequent events, which I have 
noted elsewhere, show this to have been the case. 

At the time of the visit of the Surgeon-General 
of the United States to inspect the hospitals, it 
was rumored, though wholly without foundation, 
that his object was to change the organization and 
remove the ladies. The burst of feeling with which 



22 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

this rumor was received was more than gratifying, 
it was convincing, and proved that if the men were 
"victimized" they were quite unconscious of it. 
Only a day or two since, as I was sitting by one 
of our sick men, M. passed with some preparation 
in her hand, which she had just made. He turned 
to me, and pointing to her, said, " I don't think all 
our angels are in heaven, do you?" 

The same feeling, though not always expressed 
in the same words, seems to be entertained by one 
and all. " Tell me," said I to one the other day, 
" if I am in your way ?" 

"In our way!" said he, "is the green grass in 
our way?" 

" No, for you walk over it, and I have no wish 
to be trampled on." 

He looked disappointed. " I didn't mean that, 
Miss, I meant its presence always cools and refreshes 
us, and I thought you'd understand." 

" I did quite understand, and thank you," I said, 
sorry that I had pained him by rejecting the well- 
meant expression of feeling. 

Any one who seriously desires to ascertain the 
truth, (and to such only do I address myself) will 
believe that these instances are not recorded for 
the sake of retailing compliments, but as proofs of 
a far deeper feeling, which, there can be little doubt, 
does exist in the hearts of the men amongst whom 
we are appointed to minister. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 23 



OUE DAILY WOEK. 

August, 1862. 

You ask me, dear C, the usual question, when our 
work at the hospital is mentioned, "What can the 
ladies find to do all day?" I might give you the 
stereotyped answer, " We receive and register the 
donations, give out and oversee the clothing, make 
either delicacies or drinks for the men who are ill, 
read to them, write for them, and try to make 
ourselves generally useful." This is the ordinary 
answer, but I think it would be more agreeable to 
you to come and see for yourself; one day is a 
pretty good specimen of every day, at least at 
present, so don your bonnet and jump into the 
cars with me. What do you say ? That the sun 
is too scorching and the air too heavy for exertion ? 
You think so here, but come with me, and you will 
soon forget weather and self in more important 
affairs ; at least, so I find it. You agree ? Well, 
then, here we are; why don't you acknowledge the 
guard's salute as we enter ? Shall we pause for a 
moment in the wards, before we begin our work ? 
I think we had better do so, for in these days, when 
we once enter our room, there is no escape, while 



24 NOTESOF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

the light hists. There are several cases here which 
I should like to point out to you as we pass along, 
though we cannot give much time to them to-day. 
Do you see the man bending over that geranium 
plant in the window ? I think I have never seen a 
more real, true, deep love of flowers in any one than 
in him. You see how lovingly he leans over that 
bush, as though each leaf were a special pet and 
darling. I have often, this summer, brought him 
a few roses — as much, I believe, for my own plea- 
sure as his — that I might watch his delight. He 
would sit often for nearly an hour looking at them, 
holding them in his hands and lingering over them, 
it seemed, with a feeling too deep for words. 

I never could tell whether it was pure love of the 
flowers themselves, or whether they brought home, 
with all its memories, before him; and as he is 
very reserved, I content myself with giving the 
enjoyment without being too critical as to its cause. 

Bat while I am talking, I see that your eyes are 
wandering to that bed, where one of our sickest 
men is lying. He is an Irishman, and far gone in 
consumption, poor fellow ! He has interested me 
much by his air of silent, weary sufl'ering, and 
from his loneliness; he seems to have no friends 
anywhere, and is very grateful for the least service 
rendered him. And yet he has a good deal of 
drollery about him, and when his pain will let 
him, often amuses the men with his dry remarks. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 25 

The other day, as I passed him, his hard, hollow 
cough was followed by such a deep, heavy sigh, 
that I stopped at once, saying, " What can I do for 
you, Jones ? Is there nothing that you want ?" 

"J^othing, ma'am, nothing; sure, and what I 
want, is what you can't give." 

" Tell me Avhat it is; perhaps I may be able to 
help you." 

" Sure, and it's lonely I am, so very lonely ; and 
it's some one to love that I'm wanting." 

"Ah," said I, "you were right to say I couldn't 
help you, for unfortunately wives are not provided 
by Government." 

Here his Irish humor gained the ascendant, and 
with a merry twinkle in his eye, so mournful but 
a moment before, he said, " But I'm thinking that's 
jist what you ladies is here for, to supply what 
isn't provided by Government." 

"Exactly," said I, much amused; "but I do not 
find wnves among the list of luxuries on our diet- 
table. Jones, look at the man at your side, the 
man opposite to you, and the man directly in front 
of you; ask each one of those three what is their 
greatest trouble at this moment, and I happen to 
know exactly what they will tell you. 

" The one at your side is wearying for a letter 

from his far distant home, which will not come, 

and dreading that even on its arrival, it will only 

tell him of sickness and suffering among those 

3 



26 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

dearest to him, and which, lying here, he has no 
power to relieve; the man opposite to you has just 
read me a letter from his wife, telling him that she 
and the children were almost starving; she has 
hurt her right arm, and can no longer work, scarcely 
hold the pen to write that letter, and he will send 
no pay, — charging him with it, as though the poor 
fellow could help it." 

" ' God knows,' he says, ' every cent I ever earned 
was at her service and the weans;' (he is a Scotch- 
man, as I knew, when I heard him say that) ' but 
the pay don't come, and I lie here thinking all 
night, till I sometimes feel I must pray very hard 
or I shall cut my throat.' 

'' I have been trying to comfort him with the 
assurance that he will be paid before long, and 
have been telling him how many difficulties there 
are in the way of prompt payment in the army, 
and that the men must try to be patient, and 
believe that the Government has a hard task, far 
harder than they know, to meet all the require- 
ments which this sad state of things necessarily 
causes. 

" The man directly in front of you, unable as you 
know to rise from his bed, has just heard of his 
wife's death, here in the city, and does not know 
who will see to her funeral, nor who will take care 
of his little ones ; now, may not some things be 
worse than loneliness?" 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 27 

" Faith, an' its truth you're spakin' ; a sight 
worse are such things than all this pain and cough; 
and I'll think of that same, when the other thought 
comes, when my breath's so short, and the pain's 
so bad, that longing to have an old woman to say, 
'Is it sufferin' ye are, Jones, dear?' and I'm just 
the sort to fret, if she was wan tin', and I lyin' 
here, not able to help her. Thank you, ma'am, I 
see it's far best as it is." And I left poor Jones, 
convinced that there were circumstances in which 
an "old woman" was better "in posse," than "in 
esse." 

But what will become of our duties if we linger 
here so long ; let us go now to our room and com- 
mence operations. Look before you. Do you know 
what that barricade at the door means ? Three 
barrels and two large boxes, and they are saying, 
" Unpack me, unpack me, or there will be nothing 
left." Do you wonder how I have found out that 
such are their views ? Everything on earth has a 
mode of its own of conveying ideas ; look at the 
bottom of those barrels, and the floor near those 
boxeSj and you will find that red stream gently 
flowing there, quite as eloquent and quite as easily 
understood as any words. That is liquid currant 
jelly, which, probably, as in a box we opened 
yesterday, has been of an adventurous turn of 
mind, one of the Peripatetic school, and not con- 
tent with the narrow limits to which its friends 



28 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

t 

have confined it, has burst its bounds, and made 
acquaintance with sheets, shirts, and stockings; 
and you will soon see a mournful melange of jelly, 
broken glass, and clothing; and fortunate for you 
if you do not mingle your own blood with it before 
you are done. Do not imagine that all our boxes 
have such a sad fate ; many arrive in prime order, 
but whenever we see that suspicious color at the 
bottom of barrels and boxes, we know what to 
fear. Only a day or two ago, a large box, contain- 
ing a dozen and a half large earthenware crocks 
of apple-butter, arrived, from which we could only 
rescue two, the others being a motley mass of but- 
tered earthenware and straw, scarcely a desirable 
article for hospital diet. Dear friends in the coun- 
try ! whose generous hearts prompt you to send 
delicacies to the sick and suifering soldiers, let me 
beg for more careful packing; slats of wood between 
the jars would prevent them from falling together, 
as they usually do when hurriedly lifted up and 
placed on end; we regret the loss as much, or more 
than you can do, for Ave see the disaj^pointment of 
the men as they take out one broken piece after 
another, and vainly try to separate crockery or 
glass from preserves. 

Here comes a ready helper. Yes, John, roll them 
right into our room, and please bring a hatchet and 
open that box for us; I know it's all sticky, but 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 29 

that can't be helped, we must do the best with it 
that we can. 

And now, while he is taking the lid of the box 
off for us, and opening the barrels, take a seat and 
look round you. This is the ladies' room, where we 
spend so much of our time, and where all our work 
is done. But first, let me put our kettle on the 
stove, we must soon begin our cooking; for as I 
have told you, we prepare the delicacies for the 
men who are ill ; cook eggs for them, stew oysters, 
make corn-starch, farina, arrow root, or chocolate ; 
don't laugh ! yes, even I have found "ignorance" 
so far from " bliss," that with M.'s valuable instruc- 
tions, I am really learning to do something useful, 
incredible as it appears to you. What do you say? 
That you would not care to test the truth of my 
statements by taste ? Ah well ! you shall not be 
tried, and in the meantime the men are satisfied, 
which is my only aim. The clothing you see here 
on the shelves, consists almost entirely of donations. 
We do not keep the Government clothing here — at 
least only certain articles — as all the flannel is 
drawn by the men and taken from their pay ; but 
we have been so liberally supplied from the different 
Churches, and from various societies, that it has 
generally been in our power to give them what 
they need, and allow them to retain the articles. 

" Well, little one, come here, bring me your box, 
and I will empty it for you. Nice fresh lint, all 
3* 



30 ' NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

linen, and clean, too; that will be much better 
than what you brought before; and now here is 
your box; I will tell the poor wounded soldiers 
that a kind little girl made it for them; and, good- 
bye now, run home, for we have so little room here, 
and so many things to do, that little girls are only 
in the way/' 

This is only the advance guard of the little army, 
which daily, from "morn till dewy eve," keeps 
pouring in, company after company, — I might 
almost say regiment after regiment, — with their 
little boxes or papers of lint, often made of muslin, 
and bearing the impress of the little soiled fingers 
that picked it. But we always receive it and 
thank them. Whether it can be used or not, the 
kind intention is the same, and who could have the 
heart to refuse the offering of a child ? More than 
this, the beaming faces and sunny smiles with 
which they present it, as though it were some 
precious gift, more than atone for the time they 
occupy in attending to them. 

Turn the key in that closet door, and you will 
see all our jellies, preserves, wines, syrups, etc. It 
is so full just now, that it was proposed to run up 
another room for a donation room, as we really do 
not know where to pack away all our things ; but 
the surgeon tells us, what is very true, that this 
cannot last ; at the present time there is an unusual 
interest and excitement, which can scarcely con- 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 31 

tinue, and we must take care of these things till 
the time of need. Ah ! take care, John ! there 
goes the top; look into the box; just as I thought; 
see, what masses of jelly and broken glass; what 
nice fine handkerchiefs, too good for the purpose 
by far; carry them straight to the laundry; but 
no ! that was the way Susan got that bad cut the 
other day ; bring a pan, and we will let them soak 
here first. Just look at these poor books; with 
red edges, indeed, and rubricated throughout ; and 
writing-paper, too, all soaked with this erratic 
currant jelly; and what is this? A pen; "cur- 
rente calamo,'^ indeed, in a new sense. And these 
nice pillow-cases, and towels, and sheets, — but they 
can be washed; what is next? A bundle of 

" My punches ready, miss ? for the fourth ward, 
ten to-day ; here's the Doctor's list." 

" Not just yet, Price ; you're always in such a 
hurry for your men." 

" You see, miss, they wouldn't take any breakfast, 
and I want something for them." 

This from the most faithful and attentive of 
wardmasters. At the beginning of each week, we 
receive our orders from the surgeon of each ward 
as to how many men need milk punch, extra nour- 
ishment, etc. The wardmaster also has a list, and 
his duty is to come to us, get their drinks, and take 
them to them ; but if there is any delay the ladies 
usually take them to the men themselves, that they 



32 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

may be certain of having them at the proper time. 
M. kindly undertakes that part of the work to-day, 
so let us get on Avith our unpacking. 

Let us take out this bundle and see what it is. 
Enter at this moment three men, each bearing a 
large market-basket. " These are donations from 

the Society; please let us have the baskets, 

and an acknowledgment for the things." This 
sounds trifling, but it means that everything must 
be taken out, a list made and sent to the Officer of 
the Day to write an acknowledgment. 

Let us do it as quickly as we can ; but here comes 
one of our wardmasters. " Well, Henry, what do 
you want ?" 

" Twelve wounded men, ma'am, just come in ; 
the ambulances we were looking for have just got 
here, and we want a change of clothing for each 
of them." 

" Yes, you shall have them at once, but stand out 
of Greenes way; look what he and William are 
carrying." 

"Green, where did those come from?" Two 
large boxes of oranges and one of lemons. 

" Dr. says, miss, these have just been sent, 

and he would like to have them picked over, as 
they're spoiling so fast." 

" Well, try and find a place for them on the 
floor, and tell Arnold to come here in a few minutes, 
and help us to do it." 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 33 

You may wonder that we do not leave such work 
entirely to the men, but they understand " picking 
them over ^^ in the sense of "picking and stealing;" 
and I am afraid that unless we assisted there would 
be few left for the sick when the work was done. 
The men are always ready and glad to help us in 
anything that we allow them to do; indeed, I have 
often been surprised at the promptness with which 
they offer their services to spare us in every way; 
to carry and empty water for us, to run our errands, 
to watch our fire; in short, to render any little ser- 
vice which is most needed at the moment, and 
which we should naturally do for ourselves, unless 
the offer were made. 

Enter a group of women — I humbly beg their 
pardon — ladies, I should have said. Ah ! I know 
too well their errand before they speak. Persons 
have been coming all the week for the same pur- 
pose. 

" Can we see the rebel ? Please to show us the 
ward where the rebel is confined?" 

" I am sorry, ladies, but it is quite impossible " 

" Eight punches for our ward. Miss , are they 

ready?" 

" Yes, Williams, standing on the shelf there; take 
them on that waiter." 

" The surgeon in charge has given strict orders 
that no visitors are to be admitted to that ward, 



34 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

as there are some men dangerously ill there, and 
he wishes it kept perfectly quiet." 

"But we've come a great way to see him, and 
we must get in." 

"Are you friends of his ? If so, I will see the 
surgeon about it." 

" Friends of a rebel ! Not exactly, thank you. 
We want to see what he's like." 

" I am sorry, but you cannot see him. However, 
I can assure you that he is exactly like any of 
these men you see around you; were you to go 
into the ward you could not distinguish him, unless 
he were pointed out to you." 

Enter a man, with a large glass bowl of jelly. 

" Mrs. 's compliments, and please give me 

the bowl to take back." 

Mem. Jelly to be emptied; nothing to empty 
it into. During the search, gloomy party gaze 
moodily upon the operation, but show no signs of 
departure. 

"Brown says, ma'am, you promised to poach 
him a couple of eggs for his dinner; he sent me 
to see if they were done." 

" It is not dinner time yet; tell him they shall be 
ready when he hears the drum tapped." 

"Have you a flannel shirt, miss, for this man? 
he's just come in." 

Look at the indignant party ; they are evidently 
returning to the assault. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 35 

" Where's the head doctor ? He'll let us in, we'll 
see if he won't !'^ 

" The Surgeon in charge is not here at present ; 
the Officer of the Day is in the office; you must 
have seen him when you were admitted." 

" Oh, yes ! not him; some friends told us to ask 
for the ladies; that's the way we got in; we knew 
they kept the rebel so close, no use to ask for him." 

A woman with a basket of eggs. 

'' Some eggs from Mrs. ; please let me have 

the basket." 

" Yes, and thank Mrs. for her kindness ; she 

never forgets us, and her nice fresh eggs are most 
acceptable to the sick men. And now, indeed we 
must hurry, and put some of this mass of things 
in their places on the shelves; for this table will 
be wanted, after dinner, for the donations from the 
schools; it is the time when they pour in." 

"Does he eat with the others?" Supposed to 
refer to the rebel, and answered accordingly. 

" Yes, madam, at the common dining-table." 

" Does he talk much ?" 

" That I cannot inform you, as I have never 
exchanged a word with him." 

"Do they treat him kindly?" 

" Precisely as the other men are treated." 

"And you think we can't see him?" 

"It is quite impossible, for the reasons I have 
mentioned." 



36 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

" Well, Jane, there's no use waiting; come along; 

I heard there was one at the hospital ; let's 

go there and try." Discomfited party depart 
abruptly. 

I am glad that you should see this for yourself; 
otherwise I think you would hardly credit my 
statement, that this has not happened only once 
or twice, hut literall}^ every day this week, with 
different parties, and variations in the modes of 
trying to gain admittance. It is indeed difficult 
to account for this morbid curiosity with regard 
to the Southern prisoners. I have sometimes 
thought that it might be an unconscious tribute 
to loyalty, and that the crime of rebellion was 
looked upon as such a fearful one, that it must 
of necessity affect even the external appearance 
of all engaged in it; be that as it may, I do most 
sincerely believe that were Du Chaillu himself to 
hold an exhibition here of one of his Gorillas, it 
would attract less attention than the presence 
of this one poor misguided rebel. There ! while 
I have been moralizing upon rebels and the re- 
bellion, don't you think I have given that shelf 
rather a neater appearance, and that the table is 
beginning to look a little less loaded; but oh, dear! 
look at this box at the door; what more is coming? 
Oh ! I see what it is. I know well that box by 
the flag painted on the top. Kind friends from 
the country send us that; we have a duplicate 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 37 

key; empty and return it to have it filled and 
sent to us next week. The contents are most 
acceptable, but as you see, it must be attended to 
at once, and as exactly this work will go on till 
night, I think you have had quite enough of it, 
and had better say goodbye to us and our room. 
This day, just as you have seen it, is a counterpart 
of every day, not only of this week, but of the 
last three months. It will not, of course, continue ; 
but, although we would be the last to check the 
generosity of warm-hearted friends, it makes our 
duties here a little arduous just at present. 

And now let me go with you to the door, and 
say goodbye. If you find that you are not too 
much wearied, I shall hope for another visit, in 
some future week, when I may have time to take 
you through the wards, and I can show you some 
of our interesting cases ; but I think what you 
have seen to-day, will furnish the best answer I 
could give to your question, " What can the ladies 
find to do there, all day ? " 



38 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE 



A MOENING AT THE HOSPITAL. 

" God's finger touched him, and he slept." 

A STEADY, pouring rain. The fog, which in the 
early morning hesitated whether to roll off and 
give Tis one of those beautiful, bright autumn days, 
the more precious because we feel they are gliding 
so rapidly from us, or to come down in rain, seems 
to have decided at last, and a dreary, drenching 
rain is the result. As we* enter the hospital, a 
glance is sufficient to tell that some depressing 
influence is at work ; instead of the bright, happy 
laugh which so often astonishes us on our entrance, 
we see the men hanging listlessly and languidly 
round; some grouped in a corner of the dining- 
room round a piano, which a few generous hearts 
have supplied for their amusement; some trying 
a game of cards or back-gammon; others lying 
on benches, " chewing the cud of sweet and bitter 
fancies," the latter class having the ascendancy, to 

* Let me say here, once for all, that the term " we " ia not used 
as the petty affectation of authorship, but is formed by the Lady 
Visitor with whom I am associated, — the " M." of these pages — whose 
untiring self-sacrifice, and whole-souled devotion to the cause, can 
only be appreciated by those whose pleasure it is to be connected 
with her in this work. 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 39 

judge from the countenance. Nor is the scene 
brighter in the wards; the damp air has driven 
those suffering from rheumatism and fever to their 
beds once more ; and after the first bright smile of 
welcome, which never fails to greet us, the words, 
"Poor William there, is dying!" are sufficient to 
account for the depression, without waiting for 
what follows, " and I expect I shall go next." 

It is often asserted that the sight of such con- 
stant suffering and death, so hardens and accus- 
toms the men to the fact, that they do not appear 
to feel it in the slightest degree. My own obser- 
vation has led to a directly opposite conclusion. 
It is only natural, that a death here, where every 
trace of it is necessarily so speedily removed, may 
and must be as speedily forgotten ; but, at the time, 
I have always noticed a far greater effect from it 
than I could have looked for; greater respect and 
sympathy for the feelings of any relations present; 
greater solemnity in witnessing the awful change ; 
greater tenderness in the subsequent care of the 
body. As an illustration, it was but yesterday, 
that one of the wardmasters, coming for a shirt 
to lay out one of our poor fellows, just dead, said, 
" Give me any one, one of the worst will do," and 
then, as though the words struck a chord, he added 
instantly; "One of the worst! Oh! how sorry I 
am, I said that ; poor fellow ! poor fellow ! he 
wouldn't have said that for me;" and as I turned. 



40 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

I saw the rough arm in its red flannel shirt, brush- 
ing away a tear, of which he surely need not have 
been ashamed. 

" Poor William is dying." Yes, too truly. We 
need not the words of the Surgeon in charge, as 
he passes, "Don't trouble him with that poultice, it 
is too late;" one glance is sufficient; and yet as I 
approached the bed I started involuntarily. The 
man had only been here a short time, and had 
never seemed in any way remarkable; of small 
size, very ordinary appearance, light hair, blue 
eyes, and a quiet, gentle manner. He had not 
been considered in danger, though suifering from 
an attack of acute bronchitis; for in this war 
truly may it be said, 

"Manifold 
And dire, Sickness ! are the crucibles 
Wherein thy torturing alchemy assays 
The spirit of man." 

But now, — could it be the same? I looked at 
name and number to satisfy myself. I have no 
wish to exaggerate, but transfigured was the word 
which rose to my mind then, and whenever I have 
since thought of that face. The wonderful change 
seemed already to have passed upon the spirit, 
which looked forth from those large, clear, blue 
eyes, double their usual size, as with an eager, 
wistful gaze they were evidently fixed upon a 
vision too bright for our earth-dimmed sight, while 
a smile, a radiant smile, played round his lips. It 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 41 

was not the poor Private, dying afar from friends 
and home, alone in a ward of a hospital, with the 
pitiless rain.pelting overhead ; it was a soul passing 
from earth, resting on its dear Lord, strengthened 
and comforted for the dread journey by a vision 
of the Guard of Angels sent to bear it to its rest 
in Paradise; the unearthly peace, the blessed bright- 
ness of that face, could not be mistaken. 

" Death upon his face 
Is rather shine than shade." 

The doctor's hand is on his pulse, sustaining 
stimulants are steadily given, and once more a 
fitful gleam of life appears ; he rallies for the 
moment. We hear the low voice of the chaplain, 
kneeling at his side, " You would not object to a 
prayer?" The wandering eyes say more than the 
languid lips, which can but frame, in a tone of 
surprise, the word, "object?" The same bright 
smile, the same far-off gaze as the words of prayer 
ascend. 

" You are trusting, you are resting on the merits 
of your precious Saviour?" 

Once more that strife, that sore struggle to 
speak; and suddenly, as though the will had 
mastered the flesh, sounds forth, in clear, strong 
tones, which ring through the ward, " My only 
base, my foundation!" Blessed for us all, when 
that awful hour is upon us, if we can so trustfully, 
4* 



42 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

SO fearlessly meet it ; so fully and entirely realize 
the One Eternal Eock to be our "foundation/' 

We dare no longer call him "poor William;" 
rather, as we kneel by his side, let us breathe forth 
a thanksgiving for such beautiful assurance, that 
his last battle is fought, his victory won. 

" Little skills it when or how, 
If Thou comest then or now— 
With a smooth or angry brow. 

" Come Thou must, and we must die — 
Jesu, Saviour, stand Thou by. 
When that last sleep seals our eye ! " 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 43 



THE TWO AEMIES. 

U. S. A. Hospital, September 29, 1862. 

I TRUST, dear C, this bright, beautiful day may 
have brought you as much pleasure as it has done 
to me, and that you have been able to enjoy it as 
you would most wish to do. I escaped from my 
duties here for one hour, and spent it you know 
where. On my return, we were favored with a 
visit from the Bishop of Minnesota, who is here 
on his way to the General Convention. 

He seemed much interested in going through 
the wards, had a kind word and friendly greeting 
for each man. One thing particularly impressed 
me, — his tact in addressing them. Instead of boring 
them as I do with " What is your name ? What is 
your regiment?" he glanced his eye upon the card 
at the head of the bed, whereon all such particulars 
are written, and then said, " Who is the colonel of 
the Forty-fourth?'' or, "Was the Eighteenth Mas- 
sachusetts much cut up ? " Instantly the man 
would brighten, feel that there was one who took 
a personal interest, and answer with promptness 
and pleasure. 

This may seem a trifle, but to gain an influence 



44 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

anywhere trifles must be considered, and are often 
all-important. My inward exclamation was, im- 
mediately, " Here is one who has been accustomed 
to dealing with men, and knows how to reach 
them." A few well-chosen questions will often 
go further, and be of more benefit, than a long 
sermon. 

As you have expressed some interest in L , 

you will forgive me for repeating a conversation 
to which this visit gave rise. A little later, I 
returned for some purpose to his bedside. 

" That's a nice man you brought here ; what 
was it you called him?" 

" The title I gave him," said I, " he gained by 
promotion in our Army." 

<' Our army ! I knew it, by the way he talked; 
then he's a volunteer?'^ 

" Yes." 

" Ever been in a battle ?" 

" Many of them." 

"Wounded?" 

" Often." 

" That's bully. But what battles ? Fair Oaks ? 
That's where I was hit." 

"He never told me so, but I should judge his 
hardest fights were before the breaking out of this 
rebellion." 

"Ah, in Mexico?" 

" No, I never heard of his being in Mexico." 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 45 

"A foreigner ? " 

" 'No, I believe him to be an American." 

"It can't be, then, for he looks too young for 
our other war. Didn't he tell you what battles ?" 

"No, he never told me, nor did any of his 
friends." 

" Then how the , I beg ten thousand par- 
dons, miss, but how can you know he was in them?" 

" Because it is my privilege to be a Private in the 
same Army. I said our Army was the one in which 
he had gained promotion ; and It's peculiarity is, 
that It will receive as recruits both women and 
children." 

Impossible as it may appear to you, he fixed his 
eyes upon me with an air of bewilderment, and 
remained perfectly silent. I continued : 

"Although I am not eligible for promotion as he 
is, but must remain a Private always, I have had 
some of the same battles to fight, and " 

" Psha ! you've been fooling me all this time, and 
I never saw it." 

I smiled. " Not fooling," I said, " but answering 
a question you asked the other day. Have you 
forgotten when you said 'Little you know of 
battles!' that I replied, 'And yet, maybe, I have 
fought harder ones than you ever did ? ' You then 
asked me what under the sun I could mean ? I 
promised to tell you. and I have only done so in 
a round-about way. Have you forgotten one 



46 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

thing more? What was it I asked you to give 
up, when you said you had rather be shot ?" 

His color rose, but he said nothing. 

" Doesn't that prove that my battles, and those 
of that 'nice man,' as you term the bishop, are 
harder to fight than yours?" 

"Well, it's truth you're saying; I'd liever go 
back to my regiment to-morrow, wounded as I 
am, than do what you want, though I know you're 
right, too;" and warmly shaking my hand, he 
drew the cover over his head, and I left him to 
meditate upon the two Armies. 

You will say that the strain after originality in 
such conversations, is not likely to be an over-tax 
of the mental powers; but you must remember, 
that what to you may be but a wearying platitude, 
may be a seed, to one who receives the parallel as a 
novelty, to germinate in later years. 

We can but try all means, and leave events to 
God. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 47 



THE CONTEAST. 

" I WISH to goodness they would not send their 
men here, just to die !" 

Such was the exclamation, in no very amiable 
tone, which greeted my ear, as I opened the door 
of one of the wards of our hospital. 

"What is the matter, "Wilson ? " said I, to our 
usually cheerful wardmaster. 

" Oh ! nothing, miss ; I beg your pardon, only 
there's a young fellow, just brought in, who, the 
doctor thinks, can't live over the day, and I hate 
to have them dying on my hands, that's all." 

" "Wounded or sick ? '' 

*' It's the typhoid, and as bad a case as ever I 
saw yet, and I've seen a heap of them, too. There 
he is, but he's past speaking; he'ir never rouse 
again." 

I approached the bed, where lay a ''young 
fellow," truly: a boy, scarcely more than sixteen; 
his long, thick hair matted and tangled; his 
clothing torn and soiled; his eyes half closed; 
his lips dark and swollen; a bright flush on his 
cheeks, and his breath coming in quick, short, 
feverish pantings, as though much oppressed. I 



48 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

saw it was quite in vain to speak to him, and 
merely tried to make him swallow the beef tea, 
which had been ordered to be given him at certain 
intervals. 

He swallowed with much difficulty, but still it 
was something that he could do even this ; and I 
found that although unable to speak, he understood 
and endeavored to obey, directions. I therefore 
ventured to doubt Wilson's verdict, and continued 
to administer the stimulants as directed. Towards 
afternoon there was a perceptible improvement in 
his swallowing ; he roused partially, and attempted 
to turn. I begged Wilson to watch him closely 
through the night, keeping up the nourishment 
and stimulants J urging as a motive that, as he 
wasn't fond of deaths, this was the best mode 
of preventing them. 

He shook his head. " I'll watch him as close as 
you could, miss, but it's no use. I've seen too 
many cases to think that poor lad can weather 
thro' it 3 I reckon you're new to this sort of thing, 
or you would know it too." 

" Did you ever hear a saying, Wilson, ' Duties 
are ours, events are God's?' Try, I only ask you 
to try." 

The next morning, when I walked in, I scarcely 
recognized our patient ; in addition to clean cloth- 
ing, combed and cut hair, his eyes were open, large, 
bright, and sparkling with a feverish brilliancy. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 49 

He was talking in a loud, excited tone ; evidently 
the stupor had passed oif; whether a favorable 
change, or denoting increase of fever, I was not 
competent to decide. 

As I drew near, I was a little startled by the 
abrupt question, "Are you the woman gave me 
the drinks yesterday?" 

I assented, sure that no discourtesy was intended 
by the use of the good old Anglo-Saxon term. 
Strange, that by some singular freak of language 
or ideas, which, I think, it would puzzle even the 
learned Dean of Westminster himself to explain, 
this once honored title has, at the present day, 
come to be almost a term of reproach ; certainly, 
as I have said, of discourtesy. Were this the place 
to moralize, I might see in this change a proof of 
the degeneracy of modern days; and question, 
whether in yielding this precious name, — sacred 
forever, and ennobled by the use once made of it, 
— Woman is not in danger of yielding also the 
high and noble qualities which should ever be 
linked with its very sound. 

My assent was followed instantly by another 
equally abrupt question, " Then you'll tell me 
where do people go when they die ? That man, 
there — I heard him — said I was dying; I've been 
asking him all night, and he won't tell me." 

" If you will mind what I say now, and try to 
5 



50 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

be very still, when you have less* fever, I will talk 
to you and tell you all you want to know/' 

'Til be dead then, and I want to know before 
I die." 

Yery sure that any excitement at present must 
be injurious, after several ineffectual attempts to 
divert his mind, I deemed it best to leave him, 
making an excuse of other duties, and promising 
to return if he would try to keep quiet. The sur- 
geon's report was favorable; the change in him 
was quite unexpected, and recovery was possible, 
though by no means probable. 

I left him alone, purposely, for some hours ; but 
the moment I re-entered the ward he exclaimed, 
'' Now you will tell me." 

Judging it better to quiet his mind, I sat down 
and spoke to him quietly and gently of his home. 
Home ! the talisman which charms away all pain 
and soothes all sorrow. Should any one ask how 
to reach the men? how gain an influence over 
them? I would reply by pointing them to 'Na- 
poleon's policy, or later, to our own Burnside, 
and let the fields of Eoanoke and I^ewbern bear 
witness to the success of the experiment. Attack 
the centre. Storm the heart. Make a man speak 
of his home. Listen, while he tells with bitter 
self-reproach, how he enlisted without consent; 
and how, since then, the night wind's wail seems 
mourning mother's moan ; listen to the tearful 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 51 

tale of the loneliness of some brave-hearted wife, 
who sent her treasure forth, and battles nobly on 
at home ; (which is the harder strife ?) or of the 
parting hour, and clinging clasp of little arms 
round that rough neck, which would not be undone, 
and which may never tighten there again. And 
once more listen, as I did yesterday, to an account 
of a return home, on a furlough, of one bronzed 
and weather-beaten by severe service and exposure; 
the joyful expectation; the journey; the gradual 
approach to the well-known gate; every detail 
dwelt upon and lingered over; "And, if you'll 
believe it, my Charlie didn't know me ! I couldn't 
stand it nohow ; " and the tears which will not be 
repressed, fall thickly on the crutches at his side. 
Lead a man, I say, to tell you such things as these, 
and he can never again feel towards you as a 
stranger; he will bring you his letters, or tell you 
their contents, with a feeling that you know the 
persons therein mentioned, and will sympathize 
with either his joy or sorrow. The citadel is won ; 
he has put the key into your hands which you may 
fit at any moment to the lock of his heart, and 
enter at will ; thus is a bond established between 
you, for the proper improvement of which you 
will be responsible in the sight of God. 

But this victory, like many another we have 
won, is a very partial one; the fortress may be 
gained, but the difficulty is to hold it, and garrison 



52 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

it with the troops that we would fain see there. 
Golden Charity, the commander-in-chief of our 
forces, has had, and will yet have, many a weary 
battle to wage, ere She can obtain even a foothold 
in such unwonted quarters; but with the all-im- 
portant aid of Her staff officers, Faith and Hope, 
we look for final success, even though we may not 
be permitted to see it. 

But do not imagine that poor Ennis has been the 
victim of this digression. After a few moments' 
conversation, the eager, excited tone died away, 
and he told me quietly that he had been brought 
up in "the woods of Jersey;" had driven a team 
there, and worked on a farm; spoke of his igno- 
rance with pain; the great grief seemed to be 
that he could not read ; if he should live, wouldn't 
I teach him ? 

"Nobody never taught me nothing; will God 
mind, if I should die?" 

" Did your mother never teach you your letters?" 

" She don't know 'em herself" 

A little more talk, and the sentences became 
broken, the words disconnected, and ere long I 
left him in a natural, comfortable sleep. 

He suffered terribly from pain in his head, and 
the doctor had forbidden all unnecessary noise in 
the ward. I was therefore not a little surprised 
the next morning as I approached the door, to 
hear loud, noisy singing, laughing and talking 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 53 

alternately, such as I bad never at any time heard 
since I had visited the hospital. 

I paused at the door, hesitating to enter, and 
knowing the state in which I had left Ennis, 
both provoked and indignant. Just at that mo- 
ment, one of the orderlies came out, and to my 
question as to the meaning of the disturbance, 
informed me that a new case of violent fever and 
delirium had just been brought in, and as the other 
wards were crowded, it had been a necessity to 
place him here. Thus re-assured, I walked in, 
when Wilson at once came up to me with, -'Oh, 

Miss if you would only try. This man's out 

of his head — he can't live — and the doctor ordered 
us to find out where his friends are, if possible, and 
let them know. He has a good deal of money in 
his knapsack, and we should like to know what to 
do with it ; if his friends are far off, they couldn't 
be here in time, but we can't tell.'^ 

"Has he had no intervals of consciousness?" 1 
asked, not caring to show how I shrank from the 
task. 

"None, and he won't have till he goes into a 
stupor, and then the game's up." 

I was too much worried at the time to ask 
whether an "interval of consciousness" was sup- 
posed to exist during a stupor, as his words seemed 
to imply, and merely said, 
5* 



54 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

" But if you have tried in vain, what object is 
there in my speaking to him?" 

As I spoke, a burst of noisy, insane laughter 
came from his lips, and rang discordantly through 
the ward ; he tried to spring from his bed, but was 
forcibly held on each side. 

" Perhaps it's no good, miss, but it seemed our 
last chance, and if you'd just try ?'' 

Here Avas a trial. And yet, had I enlisted only 
for sunny weather ? Was I to shrink at the first 
chance of service ? ISTevertheless, I did shrink, and, 
I fear, very visibly, too ; but I felt I must go for- 
ward, or deserve to be stricken from the rolls. 
Could the exact springs of all our actions be 
known, I fear it would too often be seen that 
they arise in many cases from motives which we 
should be most unwilling to confess; so in this 
case, I sincerely believe that it was the shame of 
uttering the simple truth " I am afraid of him,'' 
which led me straight to his bedside, far more 
than the benevolent wish of informing distant 
relatives of his dying condition. 

"Have you ever heard him mention any of his 
family at any time?" said I to Wilson, as we 
crossed the ward, half to keep him with me, and 
half to know how to address this dreaded, wild- 
looking creature. 

" Yes, he did say something once about a sister, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 55 

but if we ask him anything further, he bursts out 
singing or laughing, and it's no use." 

The power of the eye I had frequently heard of, 
and also that a single, direct question, often steadies 
the unbalanced mind. I could but try them now. 
I had an indistinct impression, as I drew near, that 
it would be easier to face the hottest fire of the 
fiercest foe in the field, than the glare of those 
eyes ; but, trying to look at him steadily, I said, 
slowly and distinctly, 

" "What is your sister's name ?" 

He looked at me for a moment, surprised and 
perfectly silent, and then, to my utter amazement, 
replied with equal distinctness, "Susanna Weaver." 

" Where does she live ? " 

" Westchester, Pennsylvania." 

This was so evidently a success, that I ventured 
further, though doubtful of the result. 

" How do you direct your letters ?" No hesita- 
tion, 

" Mrs. Susanna Weaver, care of James Weaver, 
shoemaker, Westchester, Pennsylvania." 

As he uttered the last word, a man who had just 
come in, came up to me. 

" What he says, ma'am, ain't no use ; he's out of 
his head, and he don't mean it." 

I said nothing in reply, but was satisfied as to 
the truth of my own conclusions, when, two days 
afterwards, I walked in to see the veritable Su- 



56 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

sanna, wife of James Weaver, shoemaker, portly, 
patronizing, and polite, fanning her apparently 
insensible brother, and applying ice to his temples, 
for the dreaded stupor had come on. 

My poor Ennis lay for a long time in a low, 
exhausted state; but the doctor gave hope, and 
at length he began perceptibly to improve. His 
eagerness to be taught — more especially upon 
religious subjects — continued; there was something 
so simple and childlike about him ; so touching in 
the terror which' he felt with regard to death ; so 
winning in his weakness, so gentle in his goodness, 
or his aims after it, that I could not help becoming 
deeply interested in him. He knew that there was 
a God — a Being to be dreaded in his view — a Life 
after death; beyond this — nothing. Our blessed 
Lord's life and death. His work on earth. His 
giving His life for us, all seemed new and strange 
ideas which he could with difficulty grasp. Never 
can I forget the intense interest with which he 
followed me, step by step, through the dark and 
dread story of The Last Week; I almost feared 
the excitement which burned in his eager eyes, 
till, as I closed, his pent-up feelings found vent in 
the words, "It was too bad!" His powers of 
language were limited, not so his powers of feeling; 
and I imagine that we, to whom that mighty mys- 
tery is so familiar from childhood, can scarcely 
conceive its effect when heard for the first time. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 57 

He took perfect delight in hearing and learning 
the prayers from the Prayer-book, and would ask 
for them constantly. And here I must speak of 
the wonderful power which seems to live, in the 
short, terse nature of our matchless Collects, to 
stay a weak and wandering mind ; " the soul by 
sickness all unwound" cannot bear many words; 
but the concentration of devotion, in many of 
those short, earnest sentences, seems to meet every 
longing and to supply every want. As Ennis so 
greatly needed instruction, at my request a clergy- 
man, who had frequently visited the hospital, and 
whose ministrations were always peculiarly ac- 
ceptable to the men, came often and spent much 
time with him.* At one time, when I was not on 
duty, he sent for me. "Why did you want me, 
Ennis, the ladies who are here are so very kind 
to you, and do everything j^ou can want?" 

" l^ot you, but I do so want that pretty prayer 
you know." The " Prayer for a sick person " from 
our Prayer-book. I doubt whether any one was 
ever more gratified, by being told that they were 
not wanted personally, but merely for what they 
could bring. 

I must return here, for a little while, to my old 
friend, whose delirium and stupor, to the wonder 

* This was, of course, before the Government appointment of our 
present faithful and efficient Chaplain, whose earnest and self-denying 
labors render any such service quite needless. 



58 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

alike of physicians and nurses, passed off, after 
many weeks of tedious suffering, during which 
time I had talked to him, read to him, and written 
letters at his dictation, quite unconscious that he 
was still very much under the influence of fever. 
His sister remained till she saw that he would 
probably live, and then was obliged to return to 
her home. He could carry on a perfectly rational 
conversation, although always inclined to excite- 
ment; and it was quite evident, from the whole 
tone of his remarks, that his " hoary hairs '' were 
anything but a " crown of righteousness.'' 1 link 
these two cases together because they were so 
linked, strangely enough, from the beginning, and 
still more in the end, and so must ever remain in 
my mind. 

Several wrecks passed by, during which I was 
not at the hospital ; and when I returned, what 
was my surprise to find our patient up, dressed, 
and seated by the stove. " Why, Jackson, is it 
possible ? How glad I am to see you so much 
better." 

He looked at me without a sign of recognition, 
rose, bowed, but said nothing. 

"Don't you remember me, or what is the mat- 
ter?" said I, thoroughly puzzled. 

" I never saw you before, ma'am, did I ? Never 
to my knowledge." 

"Well done for you, Jackson!" and "That's a 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 59 

good one, isn't it?" burst from more than one 
of the men, with a hearty laugh. 

He looked troubled and bewildered. I saw the 
whole thing at once. " Never mind, Jackson," 
said I, "you have been very ill, — as ill as it was 
possible to be to recover, and you remember noth- 
ing of that time ; I suppose it seems like a long 
dream." 

Such was precisely the case. Even the weeks 
when I had supposed him perfectly conscious, were 
all a blank; he had not the slightest recollection 
even of being brought in, and of nothing after- 
wards until the weeks during which I had been 
away. 

My pale, attenuated boy, too, was changed into 
the round, ruddy young soldier, looking particu- 
larly well in his uniform. As is so frequently the 
case in typhoid fevers, he had gained flesh rapidly, 
as he recovered, and felt all the buoyancy and 
brightness of a thorough convalescence. I could 
not avoid comparing and contrasting the two 
cases. Both brought in with the same disease; 
in the same apparently hopeless state; the same 
surprise excited by the recovery of each ; but here 
the parallel ceased. The one, scarcely more than 
a child, — a beardless boy, with smooth, polished 
brow, rising with all the vigor of youth from this 
terrible illness, and throwing off the disease as 
completely as though it had never touched him. 



60 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

The other, worn and scarred by life's conflicts 
more than by time; his brow deeply furrowed 
more by excess than years ; his hair prematurely 
whitened, rising, it is true, from the disease, but 
how? — without spirit, energy, or any sort of spring; 
wearily dragging one foot after the other ; listlessly 
and languidly sitting hour after hour upon his bed, 
scarcely noticing or speaking to any one. His 
time of life would of necessity give a slower con- 
valescence, but there was far more against him 
than this : a constitution broken and ruined, as 
we soon found, by bad habits, which he renewed as 
soon as permitted to go out, producing, of course, 
a relapse. Long before I knew this, I was con- 
scious that I could never overcome my repugnance 
to the man ; at first I attributed the feeling to the 
extreme dread of him I had felt at our first meet- 
ing, and which I could not forget; but I soon 
became convinced that there was a stronger reason. 
If inward purity writes itself upon the outward 
form, (and who can question that it does?) the 
converse is equally true. There is a sort of in- 
stinct, or rather — for that is too low a term — a sort 
of spiritual consciousness, which warns us when 
evil is near; that part of our being puts forth 
feelers, as it were, moral antennae, which extend 
themselves in congenial soil, but recoil at the 
touch of corruption of any sort. 

Ennis soon brought me a spelling-book, given 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 61 

him by one of the men, and claimed my promise 
to teach him to read. Most faithfully he studied, 
but just as we were priding ourselves upon our 
progress, and he was triumphantly mastering the 
mysteries of " It is he," " I am in," the order came, 
and by a strange chance, Jackson and he were to 
go on to Washington together, to rejoin their 
different regiments. This I exceedingly regretted, 
as I looked upon Jackson as very far from a de- 
sirable companion or example for a young boy 
like Ennis. This feeling was confirmed, when, on 
the morning of their departure, Jackson came to 
bid me goodbye, with unsteady step and bloodshot 
eye. I spoke as I felt, strongly and sternly, as I 
could not but feel towards one so lately raised 
from the very gate of death, and thus requiting 
the Love and Mercy which had spared him. I 
know not, and it matters not what I said, but when 
I spoke of the fearful responsibility which would 
rest upon his soul, should he lead that child com- 
mitted to his care into sin, he looked surprised 
and startled, and promised me, in the most solemn 
manner, that he should come to no evil through 
him. It would have eased my heart of a heavy 
load, could I have relied more implicitly upon that 
promise -, but, after all, such feelings are but a want 
of Faith; because the visible guard was the last 
that I should have chosen for him. I forgot that 
thfit young boy went forth attended by a bright. 



62 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

unseen Guard, to guide and protect him through 
every step of his way. And so we parted. Weeks 
have formed themselves into months, and months 
have formed themselves into a year, hut I have 
never heard of them, or even seen their names, 
and cannot tell whether they are numbered among 
the living or the dead. 

I can scarcely tell why it is, but there are no 
cases, in all the memories of hospital life, which 
stand out so clearly stereoscoped ujson my brain, 
as the two of which I have just spoken. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 63 



BEOWNIJSTG. 

This morning, as I opened the door of the ladies' 
room at the hospital, I found M., as usual, before 
me at her post busily working. She greeted me 

with " Mr. (our chaplain) has just been in, to 

say that Browning is to be baptized this morning, 
and he would like us to be present; so we shall 
have to be prompt with our work." 

This Browning was a striking instance of the 
mercy and long-suffering of our dear Lord and 
Master. After a wholly irreligious life, he had 
entered the army, (though quite advanced in 
years,) at the breaking out of the rebellion, where, 
instead of being struck down by a bullet, a long 
and suffering illness in the hospital had been gra- 
ciously granted to him; it had borne its fruit, and 
this day, the brow furrowed by sin, and the hair 
whitened in the service of another master, are 
to be moistened by baptismal waters. 

He has been perfectly blind for many days, and 
is evidently sinking. At the appointed hour we 
gather around his bed, the Chaplain, the Surgeon 
in charge, (whose presence and interest in the 
occasion impress the men far more than he ima- 



64 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

gines,) M., and myself. The holy words are pro- 
nounced, and he is enlisted as " Christ's faithful 
soldier and servant unto his life's end;" that end, 
which, alas ! seems so very near. As we approach 
to speak to him, he looks up, no longer with the 
blank, vacant gaze of sightless eyes, which he has 
worn for so many days, but with a bright smile 
of recognition, saying, in a tone almost of surprise, 
" Friends, dear friends, God has given me light. '^ 
I thought he alluded to the light which had just 
dawned upon his spirit, but not so ; it seemed as 
though the inward illumination had indeed ex- 
tended to his physical frame; sight was restored 
to the darkened eye of the body also, and merci- 
fully continued during the few remaining days of 
his life. To the many, this fact will appear a 
strange coincidence ; to the few, something more. 

Scarcely has the closing prayer ascended; scarcely 
have we turned to leave the bedside, when there is 
a bustle — an excitement — a sudden stir. "A man 
dying in the third ward ; come quickly, come, won't 
you?" 

We hasten to the spot, and to our surprise find 
that the Angel of Death is before us. A man, whom 
we had been watching for some time, ill with that 
terrible scourge — the Chickahominy fever — and 
whom we had left not half an hour since, appa- 
rently in no danger, by some strange change is 
suddenly and certainly dying. His sister, who has 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 65 

been watching him, night and day, had left him to 
prepare some drink for him; in her absence he had 
attempted to rise from his pillow; the effort was 
too much, and he had, as she imagined, fainted. 

But to any eye, whose sad lot it has been to watch 
that dark, cold, grey shadow, once seen, never for- 
gotten, marvellous in its mystery, strange in its 
stern solemnity, as it slowly settles on some loved 
face ; to any ear, that has listened to those long, 
convulsive breaths, with their longer and more 
dreadful intervals, it could not but be evident 
that this was no fainting, but the terrible sun- 
dering of soul and body. Man's hand here was 
powerless. In answer to the sister's agonized ap- 
peal to the surgeon, brandy is offered, but in vain ; 
and we stand silently and sadly waiting till the 
dread struggle shall be ended. And still we stand, 
and still we wait. It seems as though something- 
held and chained the soul to earth ; it cannot part 
— it cannot burst its earthly case. 

One by that bed whispers to the chaplain — 

" The Last Prayer." 

We kneel once more, and once more the wonder- 
ful words of the Prayer-book speak for us in our 
hour of need. It is enough. The cord is broken 
— the chain is loosed ; the soul seems to rise upon 
the wings of those solemn words ; for ere they are 
done, a broken-hearted sister feels that she is alone. 

It is not desirable to enter upon an^^ description 
6* 



66 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

of the sorrowful scene of excited and undisciplined 
grief which followed; three hours afterwards, we 
succeeded in inducing her to take an anodyne and 
go to bed. Character, mental training, and spiritual 
attainment, are never more clearly shown than in 
the manner in which a great sorrow is borne; 
much, of course, depends upon temperament, but 
as a rule, I think we may safely affirm, that the 
most violent outward expression has the least 
inward root; that the griefs which crush and 
slowly sap life, are seldom noisily and vehe- 
mently vented in their first freshness. 

That night, as I sat where the soft shadows of 
summer moonlight played peacefully in and out 
among grand old trees, my thoughts naturally 
clung to the scenes through which I had been 
passing, and dwelt upon those two who had both, 
though so differently, that day " entered into Life;'' 
the one, through the Golden Gate of Baptism; the 
other, through " the grave and gate of death ;" and 
in the calmness of that still night, the fervent wish 
arose, that they might both attain a "joyful resur- 
rection, for His merits, Who died, and was buried, 
and rose again for us." 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 67 

THE TWO ANGELS. 

U. S. A. Hospital, August, 1862. 
'Tia a hospital ward, and the sun's cheerful rays 

Light up many a bed of pain, 
As the suflFerers, seeking so sadly for ease. 
Turn wearily once and again. 

A small group is gathered round one of the beds. 

Come with me, and stand by its side. 
Whilst the voice of the Priest softly sounds on the air 

As he pours the Baptismal tide 

By pillows supported, in sore strife for breath, 

See one enter that Army within ; 
Whose Captain accepts all the maim'd and the halt, 

Whose service is no worth to Him. 

0, wonderful Mercy, unspeakable Love ! 

Who gave all His best for our sake ; 
The few faded fragments and dregs of lost life. 

When offered, at latest, will take. 

Holy words are pronounced, and his brow with wet Cross, 

Is sparkling with strange, wondrous light ; 
Whence comes It ? We see by that awe-stricken face 

That no longer, as erst, is it night. 

There are moments in life, when, from earthly thoughts freed, 

To our sight purer vision is given ; 
Can we doubt that bright Presence — the Angel of Life— 

As It floats thro' the air, is from Heaven ? 

White Wings are extended — no poet's mere dream — 

But truly protecting that head ; 
And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls. 

As we kneel by that hospital bed. 

A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir ! 

Some one's dying ! oh ! come quickly, come ! 
We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand, 

With its summons so swift to his Home, 



68 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

The Angel of Death hovers close o'er the bed ; 

The shadow falls dark on the face ; 
And a chill and a hush rests on everything round, 

Each man standing still in his place. 

Yet still the soul lingers, earth bound, as it seems. 
Till a voice whispers low, " The Last Prayer ; " 

And those words — those grand words of our Mother, The Church- 
Rise clearly and calm on the air. 

It seems as they rise, to Faith's eye, thro' the space 

A path for the soul they have cleft ; 
For we know, ere Amen's last vibration is done. 

With the body alone we are left. 

In the wards of Life's Hospital, thus are the threads, 

Of Death and of Life intertwined ; 
Grant, Lord, in our hour of need, that our souls 

Such vision of Angels may find ! 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 69 



BEOWN. 

"Alas, long-suffering and most patient God, 
Thou need'st be surelier God to bear with us, 
Than even to have made us ! " 

" How you can endure that man, is a mystery 
to me/' said M., to me one morning, as, in going 
through the wards, I paused at the bedside of one 
of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive 
countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not 
answer what was the truth, " I cannot endure him,'' 
for I had resolved on testing to the uttermost, my 
theory, most firmly held, that there is some good 
in every one — some key to the heart — some avenue 
by which the soul may be reached — some smoulder- 
ing spark of good in darkest depths of evil ; and 
more than this, we were not there to choose inter- 
esting cases, but to minister to all. Truly there 
was little room here for the romantic interest with 
which we are charged with investing our men. 
Originally of very low origin, bad habits, probably 
increased by the exposure of camp life, had sunk 
him lower; and I confess to a feeling of shame at 
the unconquerable disgust with which I approached 
him; but he was sick and suffering, and I tried to 



70 NOTKS OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

fix my mind upon the fact, rather than npon the 
cause which had produced it. 

Several months of visiting, however, proved one 
point, that he certainly had a heart; further than 
this, I could not ascertain, even after many trials, 
until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and 
said, pointing to the wall opposite his bed, " We 
have a light all night; I can't sleep, and I'm all 
the time reading that." I looked, and read the 
text in large letters, " There is more joy in heaven, 
over one sinner that repenteth," &c. " Do you 
think there could ever be joy over me?" The 
utter depression of the look, the hopelessness of 
the tone, and the mournful shake of the head, 
were touching in the extreme. 

He seemed to long to do better, and promised 
earnestly to seek for strength to avoid temptation. 
A few weeks elapsed, and on my return, the an- 
swer to "Where is Brown?" was, "In the guard- 
house; he got better, got a pass, and, of course, 
came home drunk." 

A severe illness followed; this occurred again 
and again ; the necessity for air and exercise gained 
him occasionally a pass from the surgeons, always 
followed by the same sad result. The men despised 
him, treated him accordingly, and his case seemed 
hopeless. One day, one of our poor men, who was 
in a dying condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad 
— it was one of those sick longings, which, of course, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 71 

we were anxious to gratify. Permission giiiued to 
send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side, 
and said, " Will you go to the market and get it for 
him?'' Brown, who was standing near, sprang 
eagerly forward, '' Oh ! do let me go for you ; I 
won't be a minute, and the doctor said a walk 
would be good for me." The sad doubt in my 
mind must have written itself upon my face, for 
its effect was reflected by the deep pain and wounded 
expression in his own. My resolution was taken 
instantly, and I resolved to risk it. Holding the 
money to him, I said, " Take it, then, and como 
back quickly." The blood rushed to his face, and 
the beaming look of gratitude made me sure that 
this was the best mode of treating him. Men are 
too often just what they are assumed to be; treat 
them as men of honor, such they will be; treat 
them as knaves, such also they will be. I mean 
not to affirm that there is no such thing as abstract 
truth or principle; far from it; but I do mean to 
say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more 
is gained by treating men as though we trusted, 
than as though we doubted. It is the unconscious 
tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and vir- 
tue. They would fain be or appear to be, all that 
we think them; and who can tell how far we may 
aid a sinking soul by the kind w^ord of hopeful 
trust; or, on the other hand, by assuming a man 



72 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

to be utterly degraded, help to make him become 
so, in reality ? 

And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere 
the doubt returned. He had been doing better 
lately. I had thrown him into temptation; would 
he have strength to avoid it ? Visions of illness, 
disgrace, suffering, and the guard-house, filled my 
mind. These thoughts were not dissipated by M.'s 
sudden question, 

" Who did you send for that fish? How long he 
staj-s!" 

With something of a pang of conscience, although 
quite aware that I had acted from the best motives, 
I said, courageously, 

'' I sent Brown ; it is not so very long.'' 

" Brown ! Oh ! how could you ? You know what 
will happen?" 

As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, 
my anxiety is not relieved, though concealed. The 
minutes grow to hours, and still no tidings of him. 
Another trial ; the wardmaster appears. 

" G wants to know if you've got his fish ? 

you promised to send at once." 

'' Not yet," I said, " but I hope I shall very 
soon." 

A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he 
left the ladies' room, I heard one of the men say 
to him, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 73 

'' Gr '11 get no fish to-day. Do you know who 

she sent ? Brown, if you'll believe it." 

A prolonged whistle. " Didn't she know ? " 

" She might have, by this time, one would 
think.'" 

Heart sick, I turned away ; my theory of trust 
henceforth must have exceptions. I had led another 
into sin, and he must suffer for my fault. Just at 
this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it 
is true, but with exercise alone, — that was quite 
plain — and handing me the money, pants out, 

" I've been clean to the wharf, and could'nt get 
a bit; I determined you should have it, and I've 
been through every market I knowed on, but not 
a blessed scrap could I find." 

" How glad I am !" broke involuntarily from my 
lips ; and I was only recalled to the inappropriatc- 
ness of the reply, by his look of puzzled wonder, 
and " What was it you said, miss ?" 

" Nothing," I answered ; " thank you for the 
trouble you have taken;" and he left me, much 
mystified by my evident delight at the failure of 
his errand. 

The truth of his statement was verified by a 
lady, who (her carriage at the door) offered to see 
if she could be more successful. She returned, some 
time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and 
assuring me that it was quite impossible to pro- 
7 



74 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

cure any shad that day, at any price, as there was 
none in the market. 

** They tell me, that I should not love 
Where I cannot esteem ; 
But do not fear them, for to me 
False wisdom doth it seem. 

" Nay, — rather I should love thee more 
The farther thou dost rove ; 
For what Prayers are eflFectual, 
If not the Prayers of Love?'* 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 75 



DAELINGTON. 

"I PITY our sick men, to-day," thought 1, as I 
gladly took shelter within the hospital walls from 
the burning summer sun, which was beating with 
unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and 
dusty streets. The city in summer, and " Dante's 
Inferno," always seem to me synonymous terms. 
It is on days like these, when the town seems so 
close and crowded, the heated air so heavy and 
impure, that I long to have the hospitals or their 
occupants all moved to the calm, cool country, 
where the poor sufferer may be beguiled from the 
thought of his pain by the sweet sights and sounds 
ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town 
sky can ever attain, let it try its best, broken by 
fair, floating masses of white clouds, their forms 
ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful than 
the last; the glad, grateful green of w^oods and 
dells, which, like a loved presence, ever uncon- 
sciously soothes and satisfies; the soft, springing 
wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile, — these 
for the eye ; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful 
chime with which that little babbling brook plays 
its accompaniment in "little sharps and trebles" 



76 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

to tlie chorus of voices overhead ; no discord there 
— not one false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but 
all pure, perfect harmony. 

Is there no medicine in all this ? Eather, is it 
not worth, for purposes of cure, all, and more than 
all that the whole Materia Medica can oifer? And 
yet there are men living on this earth who tell 
you, aye, even as though they were in earnest in 
the assertion, too, that they do not love the country 
— they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope 
that retributive justice may bestow upon them a 
summer's campaign in one of our city hospitals. 

"Have you seen our new lot of wounded?" 

" No. When did they come in ? Any serious 
cases ?'^ 

" Only a few days ago. Yes, ma'am, some pretty 
bad wounds; worse than we've had yet — two of 
them can hardly live; but take care of one of 
them, when you go in ; he's as cross as thunder, 
if you go within a mile of his bed." 

This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, 
as my hand was upon the latch of the door. I 
confess the announcement was somewhat alarming, 
as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; 
however, " forewarned, forearmed." I enter, and 
find the scene little different from usual, save that 
the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have 
been added to the number, as they evidently stand 
much closer than they do ordinarily. I pass on to 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 77 

the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, 
my attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful 
tune, whistled in a voice of uncommon sweetness. 
It comes from that bed where that poor arm is 
bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right 
glad am I to hear it; the men who are cheerful, 
are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He 
stops as I come up. 

" I am glad you can whistle ; it shows you are 
not suffering so much as I feared, when I saw your 
bandages." 

He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I 
come closer, that large drops of perspiration are 
standing in beads upon his brow; his one free 
hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor 
runs over his whole frame. 

One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, 

"Ah, Miss , you don't know Eobinson yet, he's 

a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here ; he says 
when the pain's just so bad he can't bear it nohow, 
he tries to whistle with all his might, and he finds 
it does him good." 

Whether from the suspension of this novel 
remedy for acute suffering, or a sudden increase 
of pain, I cannot tell ; but as I turn to Eobinson 
for a confirmation of this singular statement, the 
large tears are in his eyes, and roll slowly down 
his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says, 
"Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind 
7* 



78 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

of makes me forget the pain, and think I'm at 
home again, where I'm always whistling. Nothing 
like keeping up a good heart. It don't always ache 
like this — only in spells — it'll stop after a bit. Never 
mind me, ma'am, I'm not half so bad as poor Dar- 
lington there." 

There seemed to me something: touching; in the 
extreme, in this earnest effort to subdue suffering 
by whistling up the bright memories of home, in 
the midst of such intense physical anguish, and in 
the endeavor to treat his own case as lightly as 
possible. Well has it been said, " Character is seen 
through small openings;" and as he appeared in 
this conversation, such did we find him always. 
Gentle, unselfish, and bearing his terrible suffering 
with a beautiful patience, ere long he became a 
general favorite throughout the whole hospital; 
and during the tedious months of close and con- 
stant nursing Avhich his case required, every one 
seemed glad to help him and wait upon him at all 
times. But this is anticipating, for no doubt he 
will appear again, as for a long time he was one 
of our prime objects of interest, from the constant 
attention as to diet and delicacies which his case 
required. 

As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a 
scrutinizing glance, in hopes of just seeing the 
formidable object whom I had been warned to 
avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 79 

presence has stopped the whistling, nothing is 
heard but the men talking in an undertone, or an 
occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come 
from some one asleep and suffering. Suddenly, in 
my tour, I pause before a bed, struck by the ex- 
pression of intense anguish on a sweet, young face, 
white as the pillow it rests upon; his fair hair 
tossed from the pale brow, which is painfully con- 
tracted, and his long, thin, taper fingers, white as 
the face, move convulsively as he sleeps. He is 
evidently badly wounded, for a hoop raises the 
clothes from his bandaged limb. Who can he be ? 
Evidently those hands, even allowing for illness 
and loss of blood, have never seen rough service, 
and belong to some one of a higher class than we 
usually see as a Private here; for although we 
proudly acknowledge that some of the best blood 
of the country is now in the ranks, still it has not, 
as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its 
presence in this hospital. There is a sort of fasci- 
nation about that face, and I stand gazing at him 
and wondering over him till Eichards, one of our 
old attaches, comes uj). 

" Oh ! he's asleep, poor fellow, at last ; that ac- 
counts for it ; the boys are all wondering how you 
got so close ; he's in a great wsiy, when he's awake. 
He couldn't bear you that near without screaming." 

" Surely this can't be the man Foster said was 
'as cross as thunder?'" said I, thinking it utterly 



80 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

impossible that here was indeed the dreaded object 
I had been seeking. 

"Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but 
somehow I don't think he means to be cross; only, 
you see he suffers so with that mashed-up limb, 
that he's afraid they'll touch him when they come 
near, and he calls out sudden like, and so they call 
him cross; but he's as grateful as can be, for any 
little thing you do for him." 

" Is he very badly wounded ?" 

" Oh ! yes. The doctors would have taken his 
leg right off, but they say he's too weak to stand 
it ; you never saw such a sight ; he and Robinson, 
there, are an awful pair to look at." 

" Is this Darlington ? I heard Eobinson say that 
Darlington was worse than he was." 

"Yes, ma'am; the doctor says he's not worse, 
only they take it different. You see, poor Tom 
here, frets all the time, and don't give himself no 
chance ; but that fellow over there'll worry through 
yet, if pluck can do it." 

This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon 
himself. He assured me that Robinson's wound 
had apj)eared quite as dangerous — indeed, at one 
time, even more so ; but his quiet, placid disposition 
aided his recovery immensely ; while the terribly 
nervous temperament, and high state of nervous 
irritability of poor Darlington, were equally against 
him. 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 81 

" I'm glad enough he's sleeping," added Eichards, 
*' for he's been here for three days, and this is the 
first time, night or day, that I've caught him with 
his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors 
give him. It's worry, worry, worry from morning 
to night about his sister; he wants so to see her, 
and says if she were only here, she could come 
near his bed and it wouldn't hurt him." 

" Where does she live ? Why don't they send 
for her? he can't live." 

*'Away off in Michigan ; and he won't even have 
her told that he's sick ; he says wait till he's better, 
and then he'll write ; but he won't have her fright- 
ened. If he could only forget her for a little while, 
it's my notion he'd do better; but I tell him none 
of the boys here make half the fuss after their 
wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy ! he's 
just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather 
guess they must have thought a sight of him at 
home, — at least, he does of them, — too much for 
his own good, that's certain ; this terrible fretting 
after home, when they're sick, does the boys a lot 
of harm." 

Knowing that Eichards' one talent was garrulity, 
I left him and went to our room, thinking that 
perhaps we might prepare something to tempt 
poor Darlington's appetite; for the surgeon told 
us it was vital to keep up his strength, and 3^et he 



82 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

could scarcely be persuaded to touch anything 
which had been brought him. 

As I well knew, from the state they described 
him to be in, that the sight of a stranger could 
not be agreeable to him, we sent everything we 
made for him through Richards, who constituted 
himself his body-guard from the moment of his 
entering the hospital, and a most faithful and 
untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I say 
that garrulity is his only talent ; he developed then 
and thjere a gift for nursing for which those who 
best loved Darlington can never be too grateful. 
Days passed on, and I soon found that (as I had 
supposed) what the men termed " crossness," was 
but the sad querulousness produced by suffering, 
and the state of which I have spoken. 

While Bobinson evidently gained, — though his 
attacks of pain were still marked by his own 
peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard in 
the ladies' room, and always knew how to interpret, 
— Darlington was as evidently losing; and all hopes 
of amputation were necessarily abandoned. I could 
feel nothing but the most intense pity for him, and 
longing to comfort him ; but it seemed impossible, 
M. said to me one day, " It certainly seems best, 
from what we see and hear of Darlington, to send, 
not take, his nourishment to him ; and yet, perhaps 
our presence might be more welcome ; but I hesitate, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 83 

because the sight of any one coming near him 
seems to throw him into such a nervous state." 

"Yes," said I, "any one but Eichards; doesn't 
it seem a strange fancy?" 

And so we went on, for a week or more longer; 
for our interest in the case was so great, that even 
when not on duty at the hospital, we felt that we 
must know its progress. One day the surgeon 
came to me and begged me to try to cheer up 
Darlington, he was so down-hearted, would taste 
no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless some 
change could be made in his feelings. I went to 
his bedside at once, to see if he were awake, for 
much of the time he was kept under the effect 
of anodyne, to deaden the excessive pain. For 
many a long day did that look of deep, profound 
wretchedness haunt me, as he raised his soft, clear 
blue eyes to mine, and said, in the most earnest, 
pleading tone, " Dear lady, please to go away, I 
am so very wretched." Any one who had ever 
suffered realized that there was no crossness here ; 
physical suffering, acute and intense, was written 
in every line of his face, sounded in every tone 
of his voice, and most earnestly did 1 long to 
soothe him. 

Without answering, I drew back, and laid my 
cold hands on his burning brow. His whole ex- 
pression changed. "You like it," I said; "I am 



84 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

SO glad ; we have all been wishing so much to do 
something to comfort you." 

A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed 
over the poor white face, followed the next moment 
by the painful contraction of the muscles from 
suffering. 

"ButI want /ler/" 

"Ah!" said I, "that sister! 'No one can take 
her place ; we will write, and she can soon be 
here ; she would come further than from Michigan, 
I am sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as 
you do." 

With more energy than I had ever seen in him, 
he lifted his head from the pillow, saying eagerly, 
"Never, never write to her; I wouldn't have her 
see me so for all " 

But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden 
increase of pain, faintness came on ; strong stimu- 
lants and the doctor's presence were needed, and 
I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a 
beginning. 

The next day, when I came to him, he looked 
much sunken, and seemed altogether lower than 
I had yet seen him. He smiled, however, and 
tried to lift his hand, and point to his head. 

"You like my cold hands," said I, as I once 
more pressed them on his throbbing temples; " but 
perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be better ; 
let me get you some." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 85 

He said something which I could not catch ; his 
voice sounded strangely weak and broken, and I 
was obliged to ask him to repeat it. 

" No ! oh no ! I said your hands were better 
than any ice." 

" They put you in mind of that sister, is that it ? 
Well, shut your eyes now, and try to fancy, just 
for a little while, that they are really hers, and 
that she is standing in my place, where I know 
she would so long to be." 

" That sister," he said, quietly and gently, " whom 
I shall never see on this earth again." 

This was the first time that he had so spoken ; 
always before he had alluded to being better — to 
getting home — to writing himself to her; but now 
it seemed he felt and realized his state. 

These were the last words I ever heard poor 
Darlington speak, for I never saw him again. My 
week at the hospital was over; I was obliged to 
leave home for a short time, and when I returned 
he was at peace, and calmly laid to rest. 

"Out of the darkness, into the light : 
No more sickness, no more sighing; 
No more suffering, self-denying; 
No more weakness, no more pain ; 
Never a weary soul again ; 
No more clouds, and no more night ; — 
Out of the darkness into the light." 

Although I was not present, I had the most 
touching account of his last hours from one who, 
8 



86 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

in truth, acted a sister's part, — watched by him, 
comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and 
received his latest breath. With her own hands 
she cut oif a lock of that fair hair for the poor 
sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away 
home. 

She told me, in speaking of the last days of his 
life, that after I had left, and as death drew near, 
all that restlessness and irritability passed away, 
and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child ; 
talked to her quietly — sent messages to his home 
— gave j^articular directions as to his funeral — 
saying that it would satisfy them all at home, to 
know everything had been carefully attended to, 
and that they would see that it was all paid for. 
Every wish was carried out ; his body was wrapped 
in the Flag; our own grand Service for the Dead 
said over him; his faithful nurse, " Uncle Eichards," 
following him to his grave, — in one of the lots 
generously given by one of the cemeteries in the 
neighborhood of the city. It w^as a great comfort 
to know that he looked at Death Avithout fear ; his 
mind had evidently been dwelling much and deeply 
upon the subject, during many of those long hours 
when we had supposed him to be in a stupor. He 
expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits 
of his dear Lord and Saviour, and rested with a 
quiet confidence upon His mercy. He passed away 
calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 87 

he sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I 
received on my return. 

"And, comforted, I praised the grace 
Which him had led to be 
An early seeker of That Face 
Which he should early see." 

Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole 
thing, was to see the deep, real, unostentatious 
grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if he had 
lost a son. This was a strange case altogether. 
Richards was a man who had been in the English 
army; tall, fine-looking, with a military air and 
bearing, which had impressed me much when he 
first came to the hospital ; but I soon found that 
his habits were bad, and that any permission to 
go out was sure to be followed by a night in the 
guard-house, and days in bed. And yet a kinder 
heart could scarcely be found. He had devoted 
himself to more than one of the men, and watched 
them night after night till their death. In one 
instance, when one man whom he had been nursing 
was to be taken home, here in the city, he obtained 
permission to go with him and nurse him, sitting 
up with him and watching him till his death. As 
at such times he always remained perfectly sober, 
it was suggested to make him nurse, (his disease 
rendering a return to his regiment impossible,) with 
the hope that the good influence over him which 
this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; 



88 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

but this would not do; he could not be trusted 
unless he had a special interest in the man he was 
nursing, and what was necessary to create such 
interest he alone knew. "Whatever the qualities 
were, Darlington possessed them in the highest 
degree. He seemed to attract him from the first, 
and the love was warmly returned. Darlington 
thought no one could move him, no one could feed 
him, no one could dress his wound but " Uncle 
Bichards, dear Uncle Eichards," as he called him ; 
and often have I wondered at the tender love which 
seemed to exist between them. Those who were 
present told me that it was truly wonderful to 
watch Eichards all through that last day, kneeling 
at his bedside, praying with him, repeating text 
after text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for 
them. One of the last things Darlington said was, 
"Where is dear Uncle Eichards? I want to put 
my arms round his neck, and thank him for all his 
goodness and kindness to me." 

And yet this is the man of whom some one said 
to me, only a day or two since, " Why do you speak 
to that worthless fellow?" 

One day, in my next week at the hospital, Eich- 
ards came to me, and with the usual salute, which 

he never forgets, said, " Miss , you used to care 

for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about 
him ? The world seems so lonely to me, now he's 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 89 

I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing- 
box, in the corner of the hospital entry, I listened 
to his story. He gave me every detail of his illness, 
most of them already familiar to me; told, with 
evident pride, how the poor fellow thought nobody 
but himself could do anything for him. 

" You mind, miss, don't you, how the first day 
you saw him, I told you he didn't mean to be 
cross, though the boys thought him so ? Well, 
he told me before he died, how sorry he was they 
had thought so, but they could never know what 
agony it was to him to see them come near him ; 
but now he felt that he ought to have tried to bear 
it all more patiently. Poor Tom ! there's not been 
many like him here, and there'll never be any like 
him to me,'' and hard, heavy sobs shook his whole 
frame. 

I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to 
him ; of the kind way in which he had watched 
him, and how we had all noticed it; and won a 
promise from him, in his softened state, that hence- 
forward he would try so to live as to meet him 
hereafter; and I really believe that at the time he 
was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the 
struggle against a sin so confirmed more fearful 
still. 

Some days afterwards, he came to me, when 
there were others present, and said : 

*' I had a letter from her to-da}^" 
8* 



90 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

My thoughts were far enough from Darlington 

at the moment, and I answered, 

" From whom?" 

"From Aer, you know!" 

"And who do you mean by 'her?'" 

" His sister, to be sure," he said, in an injured 

tone, as though I should have known that, at 

present, there was but one subject for him. 

"Oh, have you? What does she say?" 

"Not now, not now," he said, looking at the 

others, as though the grief were too fresh, the 

subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; 

" but I just thought you'd like to know." 

At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me 

to let him tell me what she had written; — her 

warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and 

tenderness to her darling brother; and begging 

him to plant some flowers where he was laid to 

rest. This may never be in his power, but there 

are those who will never forget to care for and 

cherish the low grave of that young Private. 

« 
Military Hospital, July, 1862. 

What matters it, one more, or less ? 

A Private died to-day ; 
" Bring up a stretcher — bear him off — 

And take that bed away ; 
Put 39 into his place, 

It is more airy there ; 
And give his knapsack, and those clothes. 

Into the steward's care." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 91 

So, it is over. All is done ! 

And, ere the evening guard, 
Few thought of the Dread Presence 

That day within the ward. — 
Few thought of the young Private, 

Whose suffering, pallid brow 
Was knit by torture, not by time,— 

Unfurrow'd by Life's plough. 

Few thought upon the agony 

In that far western home. 
Where he, their hearts' best treasure. 

Was never more to come; 
For Privates have both hearts and homes, 

And Privates, too, can love ; 
And Privates' prayers, thank God for that ! 

May reach the Throne above. 

We know thee not, sad sister ! 

Whose name so oft he breathed. 
Till it would seem that thoughts of thee 

Round his whole being wreathed ; 
But by the love he bore for thee. 

We catch a glimpse of thine ; 
And, by the bond of sisterhood. 

We meet beside his shrine. 

We meet to tell thee, stricken soul ! 

That strangers held thy place- 
Sisters by Nature's right, and he. 

Brother, by right of race. 
While pillow'd tenderly his head. 

Cooled was his burning brain 
By loving hands; and one fair curl. 

Severed for thee, sweet pain ! 

If comfort be not mockery 

In such a harrowing hour, 
0, find it in his cherishing, 

And let the thought have power ; 
Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem'st. 

He, needing love and care. 
Knowing 'twas granted, thou canst kneel 

And ask for strength to bear. 



92 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

men, his brothers, bear in mind, 

For all, our dear Lord died ! 
Souls own but one Commission — 

Love of The Crucified ! 
Right gallant are the OflBcers — 

Men, noble, brave, and true ; 
But when you breathe a Prayer for them, 

Say one for Privates too. 



NOTES OF IIOSriTAL LIFE. 93 



"LITTLE COENING." 

Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. 
Sickness and suffering are, of course, the normal 
condition, but we try to crowd in all the brightness 
we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their 
place. One such presence as that of " Little Corn- 
ing" must insure some sunshine. How can I de- 
scribe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once 
seen, never to be forgotten ? 

" Little Corning," we always called him, to dis- 
tinguish him from our tall wardmaster of the same 
name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to 
his little, short, squat figure. I always contended 
that he had been a sailor, from the roll and pitch 
in his gait, and a certain way he had of giving a 
lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near 
him. He assured me most positively that such 
was not the case; but I still continue to think 
that he must have been, in some former state of 
existence, if not in this. Many men have been 
convicted before now on circumstantial evidence, 
why should not he be also ? Perhaps he did not 
choose to confess the fact — no man is bound to 
criminate hiinself — therefore I see no good reason 



94 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

for giving up my first conviction, and many for 
holding it; ergo, I repeat that I think he had been 
a sailor. 

I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier 
nature. He seemed to possess the blessed faculty 
of shedding sunshine and joy all around him ; many 
a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient 
quarrel checked, by his odd, dry way of placing 
things in a ludicrous light, and thus changing 
churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into 
merriment. Momus certainly presided at his birth, 
touched him with his wand, and claimed him for 
his own. 

He had the best reason for his uniform cheerful- 
ness; indeed, the only one which can ever secure 
it. His Christianity was of a truly healthy order, 
and certainly brought him both content and peace. 
During his residence of many months in the hos- 
pital, I never saw a frown upon his face, or heard 
anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or pleasant 
word from him. Often, in my rounds, I would 
come upon him, unexpectedly, in some obscure 
corner, poring over his Bible, apparently quite 
absorbed in it, and yet always ready to lay it 
aside when he could make himself useful, but 
returning to it as a pleasure, when his work was 
accomplished. 

He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have 
often seen men of all sorts and tastes gathered 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 95 

round him, listening by the hour to Methodist 
hymns, for the sake, Ave must suppose, of those 
uncommon tones, rather than of the words which 
called them forth. 

One morning he came into the ladies' room, and 

informed us, with much delight, that Mr. had 

promised to ask some of the pupils from the Blind 
Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, 
to give a concert, begging us to be present. 

I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite 
impossible ; it would be ])leasant, but could not be 
arranged. He seemed much disappointed, but soon 
left the room, and I had forgotten all about it, when, 
an hour or two later, he burst into the room, quite 
radiant, exclaiming, " It's all fixed, we've got it all 
fixed." 

"What's all fixed?" said I, my mind intent on 
some refractory oysters which refused to boil. 

" The concert, to be sure. Mr. has arranged 

it for to-morrow afternoon, and now you'll come." 

I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, 
promising to make all our necessary preparations 
for the supper of our sick men, quite early, so that 
we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, 
the next afternoon, "Little Corning" presented 
himself. 

" Come, ladies, come quickly ! the boys are all in 
the dining-room j I've brought chairs for you, and 
they're quite ready to begin." 



96 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

"Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come 
first." 

" Oh ! please now, come, won't you ? Suppose 
just for once that the boys are sick on the field, 
and never mind them to-night." 

" For shame, sergeant ! Such counsel from you ? 
"VYe cannot believe it. Go in, and we will follow 
you." 

But although music is his passion, and he is 
burning to be there, he gallantly prefers to wait, 
and be our escort ; and in pity for him, we hurry 
as much as possible; and now we are done; let 
us go. 

There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What 
a crowd ! At least, a crowd for our number of 
well men, — over a hundred, certainly ; all who are 
fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very 
well know, are not. See how they are jammed 
together; on benches, on the dining-table itself, 
in the w^indows, and on every available spot, bat- 
tered and bandaged, wrappered and wrinkled, suffer- 
ing and smiling, in one promiscuous mass. Look 
at that pale boy, sitting on the corner of the table 
on our right; he has been as ill as possible with 
typhoid fever, and surely can never sit through the 
concert in that position. Let him try for a while, 
however; the whole scene will do him more good, 
by amusing and diverting his mind, than the exer- 
tion can do him harm. Truly, as we glance around. 



NOTES or HOSPITAL LIFE 



1)7 



it is a strange scene. Men from North, East, and 
West, gathered together — in dress and undress 
uniform; from the cavalry jacket, with its yellow 
facings, to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves ; 
all eagerly and earnestly bent upon one idea ; but 
even as they gaze, can you not read their charac- 
ters, and place their homes? Each State has its 
own characteristics so strongly marked, that I 
have often laughingly promised to tell each man 
in a ward, from whence he came -, and after a little 
practice, one seldom makes a mistake, — at least 
never wanders far from the truth ; but we cannot 
stop to discuss that point now. as the songs are 
beginning. 

But stop ! It cannot be. Look, M., look ! It 
actually is. Our naughty, disobedient, handsome 
Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair, over 
there by the window. Only this morning did I 
hear the surgeon give orders to have that limb 
put in a fracture-trough, as the only means to 
preserve perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that 
it had been done ; and now look — everything re- 
moved, and here he is. That was a very severe 
wound, from which he has been suffering for many 
months; he told me yesterday, that, in all, fifty 
pieces of bone had been taken out of his leg; the 
surgeons rather pride themselves on having pre- 
vented the necessity of amputation by the closest 
watching and care; and we cannot help feeling 
9 



98 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

provoked with him for persisting in moving about, 
when perfect rest is so essential to his cure. And 
yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, for any 
length of time ? He has a way of his own of win- 
ning us over to his side, and we know what a warm 
heart beats beneath that wilfulness ; but arguments 
with him are of little avail ; the other day, in reply 
to my earnest remonstrances, he said : 

" But, Miss , my leg is my own, and if I like 

to have a little fun now, and lose it afterwards, will 
any one but myself suffer ? " 

We have almost given him up as incorrigible. 
Patriotic songs are fast following each other, — and 
certainly the applause is " sui generis." Crutches 
pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on the 
table, with an energy and fervor which threaten 
their own destruction; but the sightless singers 
receive it all apparently with the greatest satis- 
faction, deeming that the greater the noise, the 
greater the pleasure, and probably such is the 
case. 

Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He 
has already twice repeated it, but he cannot hope 
to be heard in this confusion. See ! — he is trying 
again : " I want you all to be quite still now, and 
listen to this song; make no noise, if you please." 

An instant hush, and eager expectation on every 
face. The singer begins the well-known " Laughing 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 99 

Chorus," — well-known here, but evidently a perfect 
novelty to these listeners. 

For a few moments there is an effort to maintain 
quiet, but suddenly their pent-up feelings break 
forth, and peal after peal of heartiest laughter 
rings through the room. In vain they try to stoj) 
— a moment's pause, and the singer's voice is heard, 
seeming only to give the key-note, which one after 
another takes up, till, in the wild storm that follows, 
they are entirely unaware that he has come to a 
conclusion — that it is all over and done, and the 
singers are leaving. Just at this moment my eye 
is caught by our friend, the sergeant, his head 
resting on the table, his face almost purple, and 
his whole frame literally convulsed with laughter. 

" Corning ! Corning ! stop ! you will be sick." 

But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; 
and he cannot even recover himself sufficiently to 
join in the vote of thanks which the men are offer- 
ing to the kind friend who had given them this 
enjoyment. 

The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. 
at once, "How is Harry, to-day?" 

" Not in the least the worse, by his own account; 
but I hear Little Corning is in bed — actually made 
sick, from the effects of the concert." 

This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, 
knowing that he was far from strong. 

A little later in the morning, something called 



100 NOTES OP HOSt»ITAL LIFE. 

me over to the ward in which he was, and as I 
entered I heard a groan ; to my surprise, it came 
from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in 
bed, and evidently suffering. 

" Why, sergeant," said I, " I am sorry to see that 
the concert has had such a bad effect/' 

But at my approach the groan was turned into 
a hearty laugh, though it was quite plain that the 
suffering continued. 

" Oh ! Miss , don't, please don't I I can't 

begin again. I ache all over in each separate 
muscle, and I've lost all faith in you." 

" I don't want you to begin again; but what do 
you mean by having ' lost faith in me ? ' " 

" Why, don't you remember, you always said a 
good laugh was the best medicine ? — and it's come 
near killing me — oh, dear ! oh, dear !" 

" That bottle, standing on the table at your side, 
Corning, is marked to be taken by the teaspoonful; 
perhaps, if you were to empty it at a dose, it might 
have the same effect. I never recommended such 
immoderate laughter." 

" Oh, please don't speak of it. It brings it up 
so." 

The remembrance was quite too much, and one 
fit of laughter followed another, strangely inter- 
spersed with groans of pain, from the soreness of 
the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times 
most contagious ; the men quickly crowded round, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 101 

joining in it without asking any reason, and \vc 
bade fair to have the scene of yesterday re-enacted. 

To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there 
was something so irresistibly ludicrous in the whole 
affair, but I felt that it must be stopped. 

" Corning ! this will never do ; you must control 
yourself; you will be ill ; and besides, you are dis- 
turbing our sick men." 

" I think. Miss ," said he, with a violent 

effort at composure, " if you won't take it hard, if 
you'd just go away; if I didn't see you, I might 
get quiet." 

" Certainly I will. I won't ' take it hard,' at all, 
and I will come back when you are quieter." 

" Oh ! please no ! Oh ! don't come back ; if you 
do, it'll be as bad as ever again." 

The idea was quite enough ; and the last sound 
I heard, as I withdrew my mirth-inspiring presence, 
was another of those clear, ringing laughs. How 
I longed to have the same effect upon the poor 
fellows in another ward, where I had vainly racked 
my brain for many days, to call up even a faint 
smile on their depressed and weary faces. I sent 
everything over to the sergeant's ward through 
the day, not risking my dangerous presence there; 
and even at night judged it better not to go over 
to say goodbye, although it was Saturda}^ night, 
and my duties for the week were over. 
\When 1 came again, my merry friend had been 
9* 



102 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

returned to his regiment, and that had been our 
final interview. I have often wondered since, how 
(if ever) we should meet again? Whether that 
last laughing parting will linger in his mind, or 
whether its memory shall have been crushed out 
by the stern realities of war ? 

Note. — The problem has been solved. To our amazement, the 
week after the Gettysburg fight, Little Corning walked into the 
ladies' room at the hospital, fresh from the field — or rather, anything 
but Iresh. Tattered and battered, soiled and moiled ; his head tied 
up, and looking very much, on the whole, as though he had been in 
an Irish row. He had been wounded in the temple by a shell ; but 
not dangerously, and had hastened to " his old home," as he called 
it, as soon as he arrived, although to his great regret, as well as ours, 
he had been placed in another hospital. 

We welcomed him warmly, and were too full of his danger and 
our own — his escape and our own, to revert to past days for more 
than a word. He had not lost his old bright spirit, and when we told 
him how pleasant it was to have our old friends for our defenders, hia 
eye sparkled, and he said, " Yes ; I felt all the time I was fighting 
for you." And thus we met again. 



" No stream from its source 
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course, 
But what some land is gladdened. No star ever rose 
And set, without influence somewhere. Who knows 
What earth needs from earth's lowest creature ? No life 
Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife, 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby : 
The spirits of just men made perfect on high; 
The Army of Martyrs who stand by the throne, 
And gaze into The Face that makes glorious their own, 
Know this surely at last. Honest love, honest sorrow ; 
Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, — 
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary ? 
The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary ? 
Hush ! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit 
Echo, ' He that o'ercometh, shall all things inherit.' " 



(104) 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 105 



GAVIN. 

How sadly and how strangely we misjudge our 
brother ! We walk daily by his side, and receive 
the cold exterior as a type of the inner life, forget- 
ting that hardness, sternness, and repelling reserve, 
may be only the crust of the crater, hiding the 
lava beneath. How comes it that, when, in our 
own case, we are all so well aware that, 

" Not ev'n the tenderest heart, and next, our own, 
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh;" 

yet, we will not believe^in the secret sufferings of 
others? Instead of seeking to win the unstrung 
instrument back to harmony, by the tender touch 
of loving sympathy, we mete out precisely the 
measure meted to us ; oppose coldness to coldness, 
hardness to hardness, reserve to reserve, and thus 
a wall is built up between us, and all hope of influ- 
ence is gone. We need more trust in, and more 
charity for, each other. Woe to the sick soul, 
suffering and sorrowful, its sickness only shown 
by the petulant word, the rude retort, the outward 
expression of inward wretchedness, — woe to such 
a soul, I say, were it left only to man's tender 
mercies. Most mercifully it is not. Infinite Lovo 



106 NOTES OP HO'SPITAL LIFE. 

breathes balm upon it. Infinite Compassion soothes 
it. When shall we even begin to imitate the one, or 
strive to attain to the other ? 

These thoughts were called up by a keen sense 
of the injustice of my own judgment, in a special 
case, only discovered this very da}^ 

A sunny, bright afternoon. Our men are all 
improving, none dangerously ill ; the most of them 
have sought the yard, to walk, to smoke, to sing, 
or play at such games as cannot be carried on 
in-doors. Everything has a more cheerful aspect 
than usual. If melancholy and depression are 
infectious, so, happily, are mirth and gayety ; and as 
the chorus of one of our favorite army songs rings 
out on the air, I find myself joining in it, as I 
spring up the stairs, two dt a time, on an errand. 
Scarcely noticing where I am going, I suddenly 
stumble upon something on the stair. 

''Why, Gavin, can that be you?" 

Dashed upon the floor, his face buried in his 
hands, his whole attitude denoting utter despair, 
he does not even move or notice my question. 

While I am standing, looking and wondering, let 
me give you a little knowledge of him, as he ap- 
pears in the wards. Some time since I was much 
struck, on coming to the hospital, by the soldier 
acting as guard at the door. His erect and military 
bearing, well-made figure, and broad chest, with 
the certain "je ne sais quoi" of a gentleman, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 107 

rather impressed me, as he lifted his cap and 
saluted as I ap]Droached. 

" Who is our gentlemanly guard to-day?" said I 
to M., on entering our room. 

" Just come ; a fine-looking fellow, isn't he ? I 
have just been finding out his history. He is ter- 
ribly reserved, but I have made out that he is a 
Northerner who went to the South to settle; was 
impressed, sorely against his will, at the time of 
the breaking out of the war; was taken ill, and 
allowed, as he was useless, to come here to see his 
mother, who was also ill; he, of course, never 
returned, although he had letters from his Colonel, 
which he showed, first offering him a Lieutenancy, 
and then a Captaincy ; but he prefers, he says, to 
be a Private in our own army, to the highest 
position in theirs.'^ 

"Well?" said I, as she paused. 

" That's all; he told me nothing more; but that 
as soon as he came North he enlisted, was taken 
sick in camp, and sent here." 

"His history, then, is still to hear," I said; "he 
hasn't accounted for his interesting melancholy, or 
the mournful expression of those large, dark eyes, 
which strike you the moment you look at him; 
and yet there is something about him — a sort of 
dark look — which I don't altogether fancy." 

" Oh ! you want to make up a romantic story for 
him, do you ? Well, find it out, if you can; I have 



108 NOTES OF HeSPITAL LIFE. 

told you all that he would tell me, and yet, 1 con- 
fess I was struck with his language; it was certainly 
much above that of most of our men here.'^ 

Weeks passed by, and as Gavin was not sick 
enough to need care, we had little to do with him, 
and that little did not encourage us to go further. 
Often a word of greeting, in passing, will call forth 
something more, but his cold, forbidding manner, 
joined to a certain distant politeness, so repelled 
me, that I resolved to let him alone; and yet I 
felt sorry for him, for I could not fail to notice his 
unpopularity among the men. He walked alone, 
mentally and physically, and seemed to desire no 
intercourse with any one. 

One morning I found him gloomily seated in a 
corner of the ward, apparently unconscious of 
everything around him. 

" What a terribly long face," said I, trying to 
rally him; ''you will never get well till you learn 
to laugh." 

"To laugh!" said he, with intense bitterness; 
" then I am invalided for life. Little enough is 
there on earth to laugh about, I think;" and rising 
hastily, he brushed past me, and left the ward. 

" I don't like that Gavin," I said to M., " there's 
something so dark and hard about him; I can't 
make him out.'* 

"Ah ! no story yet ? I thought he was to have 
a romantic story, with his interesting dark eyes." 



NOTES or HOSPITAL LIFE. 109 

" Story ! He never opens his lips to any one ; 
and unless he shall need something, I have almost 
determined never to open mine to him again." 

Such was the man whom I have left all this time 
lying upon the staircase. Knowing as I did that 
whatever his faults might be, intemperance was 
not one of them, I once more address him; he 
evidently has not heard me before, for, starting 
up hastily, and forgetting his usual politeness, he 
exclaims, petulantly, " I thought I could be to 
myself here, at least." 

" So you can, as far as I am concerned; I merely 
came up stairs on an errand, without an idea that 
you were here ; but another time when you wish 
to secure perfect privacy, I should scarcely advise 
you to choose a staircase." 

" It matters little," said he, sitting down on the 
stairs, resting his elbows on his knees, and burying 
his face in his hands, " one part of the world or 
another; it's all the same; dark enough to wish 
to be well out of it." 

" Gavin," said I, sitting down on the stair beside 
him, " do you remember that you told me how 
terribly your back ached from carrying your knap- 
sack and blanket on that long march ?" 

A dull, uninterested assent. 

"What would have been most welcome, when 
the pain became intolerable ? " 
10 



110 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

'' To unload, of course;" his head still buried in 
his hands. 

"At times, in the long march of life, I have borne 
a heavy, moral knapsack ; and when the pain from 
its weight became intolerable, no words can tell the 
relief of unloading, and sharing the burden with 
some loving heart, with whom it was as safe and 
as sacred as with myself Your heart, just now, is 
aching worse than ever did your back; might it 
not ease it to try the experiment?" 

He raised his head quickly; fire enough in those 
eyes then. 

"Ease it!" he said; "doesn't it feel every day 
and every hour that it must burst, unless I tell 
what I am suffering? I walk among the men 
here, and they pass me as cold and stiff, when, 
God knows, I'm on fire inside; I'm burning up, 
burning up, here," added he, pressing his hand on 
his brain. 

This was enough. The buckles were unstrapped, 
the burden would follow. 

The first thing that roused us was the tap of the 
drum for supper. The long hours of that sunny 
summer's afternoon had slipped by, as I listened 
to a story, which, in Victor Hugo's hands, would 
be worked into a romance quite as thrilling as 
anything he has ever penned ; whilst in mine it 
must remain forever, — a deposit sacred as the 
grave. My object was accomplished. With a 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. Ill 

smile, he rose — the first I had ever seen on his 
face — saying, " You were right about that moral 
knapsack; my heart feels lighter than I ever 
thought it could again," 

"And you will do as I say?" 

"I will try." 

"And you will try too, won't you, to remember 
my first advice, some time since, and learn to laugh 
a little more ? " 

" Indeed I will ; and it seems as if it might be 
possible now, but let me tell you " 

"]N"othing more to-day," said I, laughing; "I 
must refuse any further confidence ; " and running 
down stairs to our room, I was complimented upon 
the promptitude with which I performed an errand. 
No matter, thought I ; — if one sad soul has found 
comfort in pouring out the bitter sorrows of a life, 
the hours have not rolled by in vain. Are we not 
all responsible for each day, nay, for each hour, as 
it passes ? Not alone for the right use of time in 
improving our own souls, but for the manner in 
w^hich we act upon others. Influence ! The lan- 
guage scarcely holds a more solemn word, — the 
mind scarcely receives a more fearful thought ! 
How has this power been exerted ? We all jDOssess 
it in greater or less degree. We all shall have to 
render an account for the use or misuse of such a 
terrible talent. 



112 NOTES OF HOSf>ITAL LIFE. 

" The deeds we do, the words we say, 
Into still air they seem to fleet ; 
We count them ever past, 
But they shall last ; — 
In the dread judgment, they 
And we shall meet !" 

Time was, when, to my miod, it seemed only 
humility to believe that such a speck in God's 
creation — such an atom, great in no one thing, 
mentally, morally, or physically — must be without 
power for good or evil — without influence upon 
any single soul. It will not do. Humility is 
doubtless a great gift; Truth is a greater. 'No 
mortal being into whom God has breathed the 
breath of life, can live upon this earth and not 
act upon his fellow mortals in some manner. We 
cannot be merely negative; we are, we must be 
positive. 

" Where we disavow 
Being keeper to our brother, we're his Cain." 

A word, a look, aye, even a tone may be the 
making or undoing of a soul. My brother ! remem- 
ber that to those amongst whom you are thrown, 
you must be, morally, either air or water. Air, to 
fan the smouldering spark of good, till its white 
flame mounts higher and higher, encircling your 
head with a halo of glory ; or water, to quench 
that same spark, which, in dying, will envelop 
you in the blackness of darkness for ever and 
ever. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 113 



HASTY JUDGMENT. 

How little, in this world of ours, 
One heart doth know another; 

Man treads alone the path of life, 
A stranger to his brother. 

The heart hath its own depths— it strives 

With sacred awe to hide, 
E'en from those round us, journeying on 

Unconscious at our side. 

Recesses, which, to the world's gaze, 
Are dark and barred from view ; 

Hence comes it that the public eye 
So rarely reads us true. 

And yet a light does reach those depths— 

Those Portals have a key ; 
They're brightened by Love's silver beams, 

Unlocked by Sympathy. 

Those ashes, which, to common view, 

Cold, dark, and lifeless seem. 
When stirr'd by Sympathy's soft touch, 

Send forth a brilliant gleam. 

Then pause, nor judge thy fellow man ; 

Remember it may be. 
The heart is beating underneath, 

But thou dost lack the key. 



10 



114 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 



CHEISTMAS AT THE U. S. A. 
HOSPITAL, . 

I PROMISED, when we parted, dear C, that you 
should have some account of our Christmas doings; 
but the busy days have slipped by, till now, without 
my finding a moment to redeem that promise. 

You know how we are all occupied at that time; 
but no matter how much there is to be done, in 
these days "private interests" have a different 
signification, and demand attention. 

The morning of Christmas Eve, therefore, found 

and myself on our way to the hospital. With 

that ready interest which, with her, always rises to 
meet the emergency, even at the busiest moments, 
she has offered to go with me and help us in our 
work ; and you know how it doubles my pleasure 
for her to do so. Several of the ladies have agreed 
to meet here to-day ; some for the purpose of 
superintending the cooking for the Christmas din- 
ner, plum-puddings, etc.; others to make and put 
up the greens for the Christmas decoration ; we, as 
you may suppose, are among the latter class. Our 
quiet ladies* room is quite a scene of bustle this 
morning; the ladies in charge for the week carry- 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 115 

ing on, or attempting to carry on, their usual 
duties; others flying in and out for various pur- 
poses ; green wreaths strewing the floor, and vain 
attempts are being made to twist them into some 
available shape. 

This confusion will never do. Nothing can be 
accomplished in this way. Let us go into one of 
the wards, where it is quiet; and soon we find 
ourselves seated by the stove, endeavoring to form 
a green sentence by covering the letters with moss 
and ground pine; they have been nicely cut for us 
by the genius of the hospital, and we are pressing 
into our service all the men who can sew, or rather, 
all who say that they can, which is sometimes quite 
a different affair. 

But before we begin, we must go and speak to 
poor James, who has been so ill; he is actually 
sitting up ; but how pale and weak he looks, and 
w^hat a languid expression, as he smiles! He tells 
us that he hopes to be in the dining-room to-morrow, 
and in a few days to start for home. Ah ! James, 
that photograph so carefully concealed beneath 
your pillow, peeps out occasionally, and we all 
know that you left a two weeks' bride to serve 
your country. 

He has been suffering from fever ; but worse 
than this, he is subject to epileptic fits, which he 
had hoped were cured; but hard life and exposure 
have brought them back, and he has had several 



116 NOTES OF HOS*PITAL LIFE. 

very severe attacks since he has been here. His 
gentle, winning manner has made him a general 
favorite, and we are all glad to see him better. He 
begs to have his chair moved up to our circle, where 
he can, at least, look on, while we work; and he is 
always sure to find plenty of ready and willing 
hands to do any service that he needs. 

But our work must not stand still; and lo ! at 
this crisis, we find ourselves without implements. 
We had supposed we were simply to twine and 
festoon wreaths, instead of which, or rather, in 
addition, we find the green must be sewed on to 
those thick book-binders' board letters. Oh ! why 
were they not pasteboard, and why have we no 
thimbles ? But these are not the first wounds we 
have received in the service of our country; so, as 
we have a few needles, never mind, let us do our 
best; and, as our number is increasing, — one after 
another coming up "to see the fan," and being at 
once enlisted in our service, — no doubt w^e shall 
accomplish the task. 

The men, who are always read}^ to help us, are 
specially so to-day, when the bright spirit of the 
season seems to communicate itself to all. 

Is there not something singularly striking in 
thus preparing to hail the birth of the Prince of 
Peace in the midst of an army hospital, where we 
are surrounded by all the dreadful effects of war ? 
Surely in no other spot, save the field of battle 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 117 

itself, could we as fully appreciate the priceless 
blessings contained in that Title. 

Those who cannot sew, aid us in other ways. 
One of our lieutenants prefers to collect the little 
bunches of green, and hand them to me to sew on, 
rather than try his hand at sewing himself; as he 
is busily engaged at this work, one of the men, in 
passing, laughingly rallies him on his occupation. 

" Pretty work for a commissioned officer !" 

" To oblige a lady, Horstman, is never beneath 

any officer, no matter what his rank. General 

himself will tell you that !" 

This from me, — a word by the way, — very sure 
that no matter what assertion I cover by that name, 
it will be received by him for truth. There is some- 
thing very beautiful to me in the pride and heart- 
felt love which the men so often express for their 
generals. It is this feeling of trust and confidence 
in their leaders which is ojie of the most important 
elements of success, and upon which victory itself 
often depends. 

Ah ! here comes M. We have been wondering 
where she could be, and why she did not appear. 
Her hands full, as usual, and stopping for a Christ- 
mas Eve greeting with each man, as she comes 
along. And see who she has brought in her train ! 
Men and boys laden with green wreaths; more 
still? we shall have quite a bower; and look at 
that great tree ; ^where can that have come from, 



118 NOTES OF HCfSPITAL LIFE. 

and what can she mean it for ? It has been given 
to her, she says, and we may use it exactly as we 

like best ; therefore suggests that it shall be 

a Christmas tree for James, who has just announced 
his intention to hang up his stocking, and she pro- 
poses this in its place. We all take it up as an 
excellent joke, and declare he shall have it. He 
seems to enjoy it too, and smiles with that sweet 
smile, which I am sure first won his young wife's 
heart, though I should be sorry that she saw it now, 
with that weak, languid eye and pallid brow ; we 
must put a little color into those cheeks, before we 
send him home. Having nothing else to do, this 

busiest day of the whole year, promises to 

suj)ply all the needful, for dressing the tree, when 
she returns from dinner, says goodbye, and leaves 
the men all in high spirits. 

The work goes briskly on 3 some of the men 
have got tired and left us, but most of them are 
faithful still, especially my friend there, — that tall 
Yankee, with his crutches laid at his side. He is 
a New Hampshire man; and, with true Yankee 
perseverance, has never moved since he concluded 
to try his hand at " greening letters,'' as he calls 
it. He " calculated he could do that as well as 
anything else, though he had never tried before," 
and wonderfully has he succeeded. Many a merry 
laugh rings out, as the diiferent ones hold up the 
results of their work to know if we have an idea 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 119 

"what that letter is intended for?" and truly we 
often find some difficulty in recognizing them, but 
trust their position in the sentence may be more 
suggestive than when they stand alone. It is tough 
work, and I am almost inclined to agree with one 
of the men, who, as he puts the last stitch to his 
work, starts up, exclaiming : 

" Well, any man that can do that work, is fit to 
go back to his regiment; I've done nothing like it 
since I left the Peninsula." 

As we are hurrying on, to meet the constant 
demands from the dining-room, " Can't you give 
us an E?" "Isn't that A done ?"^ a quiet little 
man at my side turns to me, and says, in an under 
tone: 

" No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here 
this morning," pointing to the bed directly back 
of the spot where our merry group is gathered. 

"Died here! To-day? Who? When?" 

" Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you 
never saw ; only brought in a few days since." 

Could it be possible that here, where we had all 
been so full of mirth and gayety, but a few hours 
since, on this very spot, on this Christmas Eve, too, 
a soul had passed from earth — from its vigil here — 
to keep the Festival — where? None knew, and 
none can ever know, till the Awful Day, when 
" the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed." 

There was a special sadness about this death. I 



120 NOTES OF HCJSPITAL LIFE. 

found, upon inquiry, that the case had not been 
considered a serious one; that the man had even 
spoken of being at home on New Year's Day ; that 
the ladies had brought him a drink that morning, 
which they had prepared for him ; and scarcely 
half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had 
been struck by his appearance, went up to him, and 
found him quite dead. Apparently he had died 
calmly and without struggle; this seemed more 
probable from the fact that those in the nearest 
beds, even, had no idea of it ; but there was a 
loneliness about that passing which I could not 
forget. 

Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered 
into its shadow ? Had he longed to sj)eak — to call 
— and had no power ? Had he yearned to send one 
last message — one parting word of love — to those 
far-away dear ones? We may not know; and if 
a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay 
almost upon the spot where he so late had been, 
was it not a type of earth, and of the constant 
mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which 
we may never escape long as we linger here ? 

"Sorrow and gladness together go wending; 
Evil and good come in quick interchange ; 
Fair and foul fortune forever are blending; 
Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their range." 

I have dropped my work, and am dwelling sadly 
on these thoughts, when I see one or two start up. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 121 

and rush over to James. What is it? They arc 
lifting him from his chair, and placing him npon 
his bed. Ah! it is one of those terrible fits; and 
see, four men are holding him down. Here comes 
the doctor; let us move away all this work, and 
keep him quiet. Is it our fault ? Have we tired 
him by our noise, and thus brought it on ? Oh no ! 
the doctor is consoling ; he does not at all attribute 
it to us; he has them often, only he must be kept 
quite still ; and goodbye to all hopes of his Christ- 
mas dinner in the dining-room to-morrow. The 
usual remedies are applied, but it is a severe attack, 
and leaves him utterly prostrated. 

We all repair to the dining-room, and here is, 
indeed, a scene of bustle and confusion. Ladders 
against the wall, men putting up the half-finished 
sentences, festooning the green wreaths, hanging 
the flag in graceful folds, so as to dispose its bright 
colors to the best advantage amidst the greens, 
hurrying in and out on various errands, and busy- 
ing themselves about one scarcely can tell what, 
only all adding to the general confusion and excite- 
ment. Can amy one wonder that no sad impression 
can continue where there is so much to turn the 
attention and divert the mind ? We are conscious 
ourselves of its influence; and, of course, men, in 
whom the feeling is not a deep one, must be much 
more open to it. 

But here is , with all her promised parcels 

11 



122 NOTES OP HOS-PITAL LIFE. 

for the Christmas tree; how sorry she is to hear 
of poor James' fit; but we decide that it will be 
best to make the tree for him, and have it placed at 
the foot of his bed to-morrow, to atone for the loss 
of the dinner; not to-night, the doctor forbids all 
excitement at present. 

And now, here is the tree, but how shall we plant 
it ? Some suggest one mode, some another ; but 
none take it in hand, till our ever-obliging Corning, 
wardmaster of our first ward, appears ; prompt to 
do, and ready to act, he wastes no time in words, 
but bears off the tree, and soon returns with it 
firmly planted and ready for service. Thank you, 
Corning; what a satisfaction there is in being so 
promptly and pleasantly served. And now we 

have hands enough. unfolds her treasures, 

and w^ondering eyes and busy hands arc soon 
occupied with them; and ere long the tree stretches 
out its green arms, laden with golden glories of 
gilt balls, soldiers in every conceivable costume, 
pocket mirrors, which may yet look upon more 
warlike scenes than those they now reflect, — in 
fact, decorations of all sorts, suspended by red, 
white, and blue cords, and glittering gaily in the 
gas light. Ah ! here is an addition ; thank you, 
Lawrence ; those bright red apples, which he has 
just washed and polished, will have quite a fine 
effect, as he is hanging them among the other 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 123 

miscellaneous specimens which this wonderful tree 
produces. 

We are all satisfied and delighted with it, but the 
great drawback is that poor James cannot see it, 
now that it is done ; but Price, his wardmaster and 
faithful nurse, has promised to lift it in, and place 
it at the foot of his bed, in the morning, and we 
know that he never neglects a promise. 

The Chaplain is to hold a Christmas Eve Service 
here, this evening at seven o'clock; so we are anx- 
ious to have everything in order; and really, it all 
looks very nicely, and we regard it quite compla- 
cently, as we take a final survey of our day's work. 

That star, which brought with her, covered 

by kind hands at home, shines out beautifully, 
surmounted by the green cross; and our Lectern 
holds up its head, quite proud of itself in its 
Christmas vestments. 

But now, we really must wind up, for the night 
has come ; and with mutual good wishes for to- 
morrow's enjoyment, we say goodnight. 

As for the day itself, I can give you little account 
of that, as, of course, I could not be present; but 
the dinner was described to me, in glowing terms, 
by those who were. 

The. turkeys, the pies, the plum-puddings; the 
toasts that were given and drunk with " three 
times three" in beer, generously given for the 
purpose, — in fact, everything seemed to have passed 



124 NOTES OF HOSrPITAL LIFE. 

off "a merveille;'' but the best part of the whole, 
was the orderly manner in which it was conducted 
— not a single case reported for the guard-house. 
This pleased us especially, as it seemed to prove 
that our efforts for the men's enjoyment had been 
attended w4th no bad results, and to make the 
j-emembrance of our Christmas of 1862 one of the 
bright memories of our hospital experience. 

May Grod grant that ere we hail its dawn again, 
those now in rebellion may have returned to their 
allegiance, and thus enable us to proclaim a blessed 
peace throughout the land. But there is something 
first. Before Peace must come Prayer. VYe need 
Prayer ; the nation needs Prayer. 

Do not point me to the little band of people or 
parishes, w^here the Daily Offering is made, — where 
throbbing hearts, and souls yearning for the safety 
of their loved ones, daily kneel before God's altar, 
and in low^liness and penitence send up that plead- 
ing wail, w^hich seems as though it must pierce the 
very Heavens, and cleave a pathway to the mercy- 
seat : 

" O, most Powerful and Glorious Lord God, the 
Lord of hosts, that rulest and commandest all 
things; Thou sittest in the throne, judging right, 
and therefore we make our address to Thy Divine 
Majesty, in this our necessity, that Thou wouldest 
take the cause into Thine own hand, and judge 
between us and our enemies." 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 125 

And again : 

"Hear us, Thy poor servants, begging mercy, 
and imploring Thy help ; and that Thou wouldest 
be a defence unto us against the face of the enemy." 

Most thankful am I for this, and for all that we 
have, little as it is ; but I am now looking at our 
country as a whole. 

We know the South to be wrong; we know 
ourselves, or rather, our cause, to be right. If, 
then, we have right, truth, and justice on our 
side, why do we not succeed — why have we not 
succeeded '/ 

Is it not that we have been — we are — a sinful 
people, pluming ourselves upon our powers, priding 
ourselves upon our prosperity, till we have come to 
look upon the fair beauty of this land, lavish in its 
loveliness, as a possession which is our right, and 
not as a loan, for the use and enjoyment of which 
we are bound to return the offering of grateful 
hearts ? 

Is it not that we have gone on in a suicidal career 
of extravagance, luxury, and dissipation, which 
has finally brought its own punishment upon us ? 
Sorely did we need humbling, and sorely have we 
been humbled. Bitter has been our lesson, but 
bitterly was it needed. The thought will some- 
times arise, would that the trial had come from 
foreign foe; would that friend had never lifted 
hand against friend, nor brother against brother] 
11* 



126" NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

Had that grand risiDg, at the sound of Sumter's 
wrong, which swelled throughout the North— had 
it, I say, but thrilled through our whole land with 
a mighty throb, till, with one heart and hand 
united, we had joined to defend that Flag, so 
treacherously assailed, where is the foe we should 
have feared to face — where the enemy, which, 
humanly speaking, we might not have conquered ? 

But so, the lesson had been lost. We had but 
gained further food for pride, further motives for 
self-glorification. The medicine would but have 
increased the disorder, the remedy added to the 
disease. We must acknowledge — we must recog- 
nize the Chastening Hand which is dealing with us. 
Where is the victory which has ever yet, as a 
people, sent us to our knees? Where the defeat 
which has ever yet been attributed to any but 
secondary causes ? Want of reinforcements, ^^ant 
of supplies, want of suitable weather, want of skill 
in the commanding officers, — any and every want 
but the true one. 

We send our men forth wanting the one weapon, 
w^hich, springing from its scabbard, and flashing in 
the bright sunlight of Faith and Trust, must insure 
success. It is the Sword of Prayer. 

" 'Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar ; 
Gains wings, and through the ever-opened door, 
Swift as the image of the twinkling star, 
Shows its reflection in the Ocean's floor ; 
It moves the inmates of that Heavenly Shore, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 127 

As, gently rippling o'er the leafy shade, 
Comes the soft, sighing gale, and passes o'er; 
E'en so in Heaven, each Prayer, in secret made, 
Ruffles a thousand Wings prepar'd for instant aid." 

I humbly beg pardon, dear C. You asked for 
some account of our Christmas festivities at the 
hospital, and I have been betrayed into what, I 
fear you will find, a tedious expression of my 
feelings upon the questions which have such an 
absorbing interest at the present time. Forgive 
me this once, and I will promise to spare you in 
future. 



128 NOTES OP HOl^PITAL LITE. 



POOE jos:e! 

"But these men have no feeling." 

The stormiest day of this stormy winter. Hail, 
rain, and snow seem to have formed a precious 
triumvirate to take possession of the day, " vi et 
armis," and claim it for their own. I know not 
whether it is a certain perverseness of nature, or 
a desire to overcome difficulties, which leads me to 
prefer such blustering, battling days, to more serene 
ones; whatever may be the cause, the fact will 
account for my finding myself, on this particular 
morning, seated on the kitchen table, before the 
hospital fire, carrying on a icarm discussion with 
one of the men, on the merits of Euskin, as I dried 
my dripping garments. A chance word led to a 
quotation by him from one of Euskin^s works, and 
we immediately "opened fire'' in more senses than 
one. 

I found him a man of keen intelligence, self- 
made, of course, but a great reader, and quite 
familiar with a higher style of literature than wo 
usually look for here. Doubtless, in his far-away 
home, grander halls have echoed to the praises of 
the great Art-teacher of the nineteenth century, 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 129 

made by more appreciative critics ; but I very 
much question whether he has ever had more 
earnest, zealous, enthusiastic admirers than the 
two that day met, before that kitchen fire, on the 
shores of another continent. 

As I walked through one of the wards, a little 
later, I said, in passing, "You are better to-day, '^ 
to a man who had been suffering from such a severe 
attack of erysipelas in his head, that his eyes had 
been closed for many days. The enormous swelling 
of his head, added to his long, matted beard and 
thick, tangled black hair, had given him a fierce, 
brigand sort of air, which was far from being 
dissipated by the aj)pearance of a pair of large 
black eyes, opened to-day for the first time since 
I had seen him in the hospital. 

" Better," said he ; " but oh, lady !— " 

He turned his head away, shaking it sadly. 

" "What is your grief ?'^ said I, sitting down beside 
him. 

" My little ones, my little ones ! Where are 
they? Five weeks, dear lady, have I lain here, 
and no word have I had from them." 

A long, and most sorrowful story followed, of 
which the main points are these : a Spaniard by 
birth, he had come to this country in search of 
employment, settled in Philadelphia, married, and 
for several years was prosperous and happy, till 
his wife fell into bad habits, wasted his earnings, 



130 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

and brought them to utter poverty and wretched- 
ness. On one occasion he had gone to a neighbor- 
ing town on business, and on his return found their 
comfortable home broken up, the house and furni- 
ture sold, and his wife and their three little ones in 
a poor hovel, in one of the worst parts of the city. 

No one who did not hear him, can imagine the 
pathos with which he described his little girl's 
illness, with all the fervor of his warm Spanish 
nature ; his care of her ; his walking the floor with 
her night after night, her little arm around his 
neck and her head upon his breast ; " for you see, 
lady, it was worse than if she had had no mother." 
His love for her seemed to amount to a j^assion ; 
his boys, he said, were " nice little fellows,'' Juan 
and Henriquez -, but evidently his feeling for them 
was nothing in comparison with the idolatry 
lavished upon his little Eosita, as he called her, 
a child of four years old. 

" I lie here at night," said he, the large tears 
rolling down his cheeks, " and think if I could just 
once have that little hand in mine, that little head 
upon my breast, it would cure me faster than all 
this doctor's stuff, far away faster." 

From what he told me, I gathered that he had 
enlisted in the war in despair; and during his 
absence his wife, for her outrageous conduct, had 
been considered insane, and taken to the insane 
department of the almshouse, where she then was, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 131 

the children having been taken to board by a 
woman in the neighborhood of their house. He 
had been unable, as he had said, to hear anything 
about them, and feared they were ill, especially his 
darling Eosita. 

"Lady, dear lady, could you, would you see 
about them for me?" 

"Certainly," said I; "if it is possible, I will go 
at once; but I must first know where they are." 

"You will?" he said, "You really will?" with 
an expression of wondering delight ; and then, as 
though the very thought brought peace, remained 
perfectly still, apparently musing upon the idea. 

" But," said I, " you do not tell me where to find 
them." 

" No — , Street." 

I started, and shook my head. " That is impos- 
sible; I could not go there." 

" Impossible ! " he said, his voice amounting 
almost to a shriek. " Don't say it ! Go, dearest 
lady, go ! Nothing could hurt you ; God will pro- 
tect you; oh ! go. I would kneel to you if I could 
rise." 

" I do not want you to kneel to me; I would go 
at once, but it would not be right." 

"Not right! not right!" he said, with utter 
despair in his tone. " Oh ! then what on earth 
can be right?" and covering his head in the bed- 



132 NOTES OF IieSPITAL LIFE. 

clothes, he groaned as though from the depths of 
his souh 

As this is no autobiography, it matters little by 
what train, either of reasoning or of cars, I reached 
the spot where I stood, an hour later; nor, for the 
same reason, shall I be more particular in my de- 
scription of what followed, than is necessary for 
my narrative. Suffice it to say, a certain account 
of " St. Margaret's court," in the matchless poem 
of Aurora Leigh, was before me, stereoscoped into 
life, never again to be mere word-painting. 

A little, low, blue frame building; the outer 
room, into which you step from the street, is appa- 
rently a small green grocer's shop. Strings of 
suggestive-looking sausages hang in ropes from 
the top of the door and window; pieces of black- 
looking material, yclej^t bacon, by courtesy, are 
piled up among barrels of gnarly green apples, 
evidently not gathered from the gardens of the 
Hesperides; baskets of eggs — which I am very 
sure no tidy hen would ever confess to having 
laid — crowd the little, low, dirty counter, behind 
w^hich stands the live stock of this interestinp- 
apartment. And certainly the object upon which 
my eyes first rested did not belie her " entourage." 
It has been well said, that the soul makes a har- 
mony for itself in its surroundings, and thus char- 
acter is developed and declared. If so, how beau- 
tifully the unities were here preserved; for why 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 133 

should we not have the unities of dirt, as well as 
those of elegance ? Doubtless that Celtic soul found 
as much enjoyment in seeing all around her in such 
perfect keeping w4th her own appearance, as Beau 
Brummel ever did in the appointments of his famed 
boudoir. I should almost have hesitated to ask a 
question of this curious production of nature, — 
something between a crone and a hag, with coarse 
Irish features, loose dress, hair hanging down, and 
apparently guiltless of any tending of either comb 
or brush since she had attained maturity, which 
was certainly not yesterday, — had she not herself 
opened the way. 

'' Get out of this, will you, Jewann, don't you see 
the lady?^' addressed to a dirty, commonplace- 
looking little urchin, of about nine years old, who 
sat tilting himself forward and back upon the edge 
of one of the aforesaid barrels, with infinite peril 
to life and limb. This rather remarkable name, 
with her felicitous rendering of it, seemed to me 
circumstantial evidence, and I gathered courage 
to ask, "Are you the person who takes care of 
Jose's children ? I have come to see them for him." 

"Yes, miss, walk in; we've but a poor place, as 
you see. Rosy, come speak to the lady." 

But it needed not the name; as soon as my eyes 

rested on the child in the corner, I was satisfied 

that this was her father's darling ; and who could 

wonder at his love I Earely have I seen a more 

12 



134 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

perfect specimen of "beauty unadorned" — the 
rarity of the jewel enhanced and thrown out by 
the coarseness of its setting. She lifted her eyes 
from the floor, on which she was playing, to stare 
at the unwonted visitor — large, liquid, Spanish 
eyes — with that expression of love and confidence 
in them which seldom outlives childhood. Those 
tangled black curls, her father's pride, were almost 
hidden beneath a common, coarse, little worsted 
hood, in which she had stuck four or five chicken 
feathers, which gave her a sort of picturesque air ; 
a large stain of the dirt in which she was living, 
rested on one cheek; but it seemed merely a 
shadow bringing out the bright tints beneath. 

" Come here, Eosy, I say, and speak to the 
lady; she's just seen your pappy." 

At that word she sprang up, and came wonder- 
ingly to my side, never taking those eyes from my 
face. 

" Yes," said I; " I have just come from him, and 
he wants so badly to see his little Eosita; what 
will she send him ?" 

In a moment her little arms were tightly clasped 
round my neck, as I bent down to sj^eak to her, and 
those rosy lips were pressed to mine, in a warm, 
loving kiss. 

Quite aware that this mute message, eloquent as 
it was, could scarcely be delivered with satisfaction 
to any of the parties concerned, I drew one of the 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 135 

feathers from her cap, and said, " Shall I tell him 
his little girl sent him this ?'' 

A bright, beaming smile, was the only answer I 
could extract. The woman now began a piteous 
story of having to provide for them — no money, 
etc., etc., — backed by her husband, who appeared, 
pipe in his mouth, from some back den, evidently 
hoping to extort funds ; but when they discovered 
that I was in possession of all the facts, with 
regard to the support of the children, they seemed 
to find it useless to proceed; and finally agreeing to 
my request that one of them would take the chil- 
dren to see their father, I left the direction, visiting 
days, etc., with them. 

Once more I stood by that bedside, which I had 
so lately left, with that deep groan ringing in my 
ears. 

" Bo you know what that is ?" said I, holding up 
the feather. 

No answer from the lips, but the eyes said, 
plainly, " I don't know, and I don't care." 

I varied the question. "Do you know where 
that came from?'' 

He started, pierced me through with those keen 
black eyes, then said, seizing the hand in which I 
held it with a grasp which secured my remembering 
him for many days, "You didn't? — you couldn't? 
—it isn't?" 



136 NOTES OF HO.SPITAL LIFE, 

" Yes," said I; " I drew it from your little girl's 
cap ; she sent it to you with her love." 

His grasp relaxed ; and, burying his face in the 
pillow, he sobbed aloud. I waited, thinking he 
would recover himself, but no word came; hard, 
heavy sobs, only increasing in violence, shook the 
bed, and I was frightened at the terrible emotion 
I had called forth. Deeming it best not to notice 
it, I began quietly to give him an account of my 
trip, dwelling on the least exciting parts of it, but 
all of no avail; apparently he did not even hear 
me, and I saw that he was getting entirely beyond 
his own control. 

What was to be done? Here was indeed a 
dilemma. He was exciting the attention of the 
whole ward ; it was within half an hour of inspec- 
tion when the surgeon in charge goes his rounds 
through the wards, — what would he say ? Was this 
the way that the ladies excited their patients ? 
But beyond and above all, he was injuring himself; 
and with the tendency to inflammation in his head, 
I dreaded the effect of such strong excitement, and 
yet all I said seemed but to increase it. Suddenly 
it occurred to me that (something on the principle 
of " similia similibus curantur," little as I usually 
admire the practice) perhaps by evoking another 
feeling equally powerful, I might calm him; and 
knowing that no one, be it man or woman, will 
ever submit quietly to blame without an attempt 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 137 

at self-justification, I changed my tactics at once, 
and said : 

" How it is possible, that a father, who has one 
grain of love for his children, can permit them to 
remain one day, or hour, in such a den as that, is to 
me a marvel that I cannot comprehend/' 

The ruse was a perfect success. Starting up in 
his bed, with flashing eyes, he said, with a vehe- 
mence which at another time would have fright- 
ened me : 

" How cruel ! I couldn't help it, and you know 
I couldn't; haven't I told you how it breaks my 
heart, night and day, to think of them there, and 
I tied here and can't get them away ?" 

This was all I wanted ; he poured forth a volley 
of eager self-defence, and ere it was half over, my 
mind was quite relieved about him, and I had the 
satisfaction of seeing him in a short time quite 
composed, and anxiously seeking to know every 
particular of my visit. He would not be content 
without hearing over and over the most minute 
details, all the time stroking and patting the 
feather, as though it were indeed the little one 
it symbolized. 

The following Sunday, as I passed through the 
ward to attend service, I saw the three children 
on the bed ; the two boys seated at the foot, and 
the little Eosita lying on his breast, with that 
dimpled arm round his neck, as he had wished. 
12* 



138 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

He smiled as he saw me, and held up the feather. 
I never saw him again. I heard, the next time 
that I came to the hospital, that news had been 
brought him of his wife's death at the almshouse ; 
he had been allowed to go out on a pass, but had 
failed to return, and nothing further had been heard 
from him. 

Poor Jose ! We shall, in all probability, never 
meet again on earth ; but I can never think of him 
without finding, in his history, the most powerful 
proof that " these men have feeling." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 139 



EOBINSON. 

" War is an unmixed evil ; look at it as you will, 
it is, it must be, an unmixed evil I" 

This, in an indignant tone, from one, standing at 
my side, gazing at one of its saddest results. 

"An evil, I grant," said I ; " unmixed I deny. 
War and its attendants have a grand side. Do 
not start, and look so reproachfully at me; were 
we standing on another spot, and were the circum- 
stances different, I would tell you all I mean; but 
let it pass." 

We were in no mood for argument then, and the 
subject dropped; but it recurred frequently to my 
mind, and the more I have dwelt upon it, the more 
I am convinced (your pardon, dear speaker !) that 
such a statement is not, cannot be true. War has 
its compensations, its beautiful compensations ; and 
I very much question, whether, if the statistics 
of the good deeds, the kind, warm, large-hearted 
actions, could be registered, as are those of crime, 
we should not find that those performed in times 
of war, greatly overbalance those in times of 
peace. Great crises call forth and compel great 
deeds. 



140 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

Where is the battle-field since Sumter's sad 
surprise, which cannot boast, not one, but many- 
Sir Philip Sydney's, with the earnest " Take it; thy 
need is greater than mine ? '' Magnanimity need no 
longer be confined to the field of Ziitphen, and each 
child be taught the story as though it stood alone. 
Where the hospital where we may not see some- 
thing of sublimity in the beautiful forgetfulness 
of self, the untiring devotion with which plain, 
pof r men watch, night after night, by a dying 
comrade, — a stranger till those walls had made 
them brothers ? Where the home, high or humble, 
which fails to show the brave-hearted wife, mother, 
daughter, or sister, giving for her country a life far 
dearer than her own, to danger and to death ? Is 
there no moral grandeur, no moral heroism here ? 
A sad soul, so struggling with, yet surmounting 
sorrow; so sending forth her sure support and 
stay, then turning calmly and quietly to take up 
her lonely cross and bear the burden of daily life, 
by virtue of such act reaches a spiritual elevation 
which times of peace could rarely, if ever, witness. 
I see the laugh — I hear the cutting remark, 
" Such a lyoman's view ! " but I know these things 
are true, for I have witnessed them; and, be it 
remembered, that ridicule is not reasoning, nor 
satire always sound sense. Never can I listen to 
this statement, that " War is an unmixed evil,'' 
without longing to combat it; and added to that, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 141 

but this very morning, the same belligerent desire 
was excited in my mind by reading an opinion, 
somewhat dogmatically asserted, that, " In these 
days, Apollo must give place to Mars/' 

"Not so,'' I answered then; "not so," I answer 
now. Apollo never gathers in a heavier harvest — 
never stores stouter sheaves, than those mowed 
down by the chariot wheels of the Grod of War, 
as he dashes onward in his headlong career. Ask 
the world, since creation's dawn, and she will tell 
you that Apollo clings to Mars; and if he ever 
" gives place," it is only that he may follow on the 
fiery track of his great leader, sure of grander 
opportunities in the waxing and waning of one 
moon, than a life-time of peace could give. 

And even granting (which I never will) that 
Apollo pauses in his course — that his lyre " lingers 
o'er its lays" — are not the daily deeds of our loved 
land, at this moment, prouder poems than this 
continent has ever yet produced ? Where can we 
find such stirring strains, such ringing rhythm, 
such burning ballads, such lyric lays, such sublime 
sonnets, such ever-during epics, as these times of 
ours call forth ? Is not each soldier a poet in his 
way ? And shall his verse have the less power, for 
that it is set to martial music ? Shall it touch our 
hearts the less? Eather, shall not every chord 
vibrate ten thousand times the more, for that the 
pages on which it is written are the fair fields of 



142 NOTES OF HOS'PITAL LIFE. 

our own dear country; its pen, the sword; its ink, 
the heart's blood of our brothers ? 

But I have wandered wide of my mark. I seated 
myself to note a simple story, of one of that ever- 
growing army who have nobly given their young 
lives to their country. 

I have made allusion before to my w^histling 
friend, Eobinson, who was brought to the hospital 
at the same time with our poor Darlington, from 
the same regiment, and wounded in the same battle, 
— that of " Fair Oaks." His left arm was terribly 
shattered, just below the shoulder, and injuring the 
shoulder-blade ; and for a long time his case was a 
very critical one, requiring the most close and 
constant watching. He was entirely confined to 
his bed for many tedious weeks, and yet I know 
not why I should apply that term to the time so 
passed; for they were certainly never ''tedious" 
to us, although we felt great anxiety for him, and 
we never had any proof that they were so to him. 
Patient and uncomplaining, the only sign he gave 
of suffering, save the contraction of his brow, was 
the constant effort to whistle away the pain, and 
his moans in his sleep. There was always some- 
thing inexpressibly^ sad to me in these moans; it 
seemed as though the body were compensating 
itself, during sleep, for the pow^erful restraint 
imposed upon it during waking hours. 

I have rarely seen greater unselfishness in any 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 143 

one. During his illness, it was all-important to 
keep up his strength, for as the wound began to 
heal, one abscess followed another, and kept him 
much prostrated; we therefore tried to tempt his 
appetite in every wayj and often, when I have 
brought him some delicacy, he has pointed me 
to some one near him, with the words, "Please 
give it to him ; he cares for such things more than 
I do." 

His love for his mother, and anxiet}^ to spare her 
all unnecessary suffering on his account, was very 
beautiful, and attracted me to him from the first. 
His weakness was so great that he w^as utterly 
unable, for a long time, even to feed himself, and 
of course, could not write. When I offered to do 
so for him, he declined, saying, that she knew, 
through a friend, that he was here ; and that the 
sight of a strange hand, with the conviction that 
it Avould bring that he was too ill to write for 
himself, would be worse for her than to wait for 
a little while. 

One day, some time afterwards, I came to his 
bedside and found a paper lying there with a few 
unmeaning scratches, as I thought, upon it; he 
held thom up to me. 

" The best I could do.'' 

"What were you trying to do?" said I; "did 
you mean that for drawing?" 



144 NOTES OF HO'SPITAL LIFE. 

A look of intense disappointment passed over 
his face. 

"I was afraid so," said he; "then it would 
frighten her, as I thought. I meant it for my 
signature, and I've looked at it, and looked at it, 
and hoped it didn't look as bad as I thought, at 
first; but if you ask what I'm trying to do, when 
you see it, the game's up, and it's no use." 

I assured him that such a signature would be far 
stronger proof of the real state of the case, than 
any letter I could send telling the facts, and giving 
the reasonable ground for hope which we now felt. 
But he still preferred to wait ; and ere very long 
we found, by pinning the paper to the table, to 
keep it firm, he could execute a tolerably legible 
epistle. The weeks rolled on, and, by slow degrees, 
he regained his strength; his bright, hopeful dis- 
position, even temper, and uniform cheerfulness, 
were great aids to his recovery ; and we watched 
his improvement with great satisfaction, and at 
last had the pleasure of seeing him able to be up, 
and even out, for a short time. 

He came to me, one morning,- in our ladies' 

room, saying, " Miss , would it be troubling 

you too much, to ask you to write to mother?" 

*' Brought to it, at last !" said I. " Why do you 
ask me now, Eobinson, when you have refused so 
often before, and can write for yourself?" 

"That's just it; she won't believe what I say; 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 145 

thinks I'm fooling her, and pretending to be better 
than I really am; and has an idea they're going to 
take my arm off, and I'm keeping it from her ; and 
I thought if you'd just write, and tell her it wasn't 
coming off, she'd be sure to believe you." 

" Sure to believe a stranger in preference to her 
own son, Eobinson ? Does that tell well for the 
son?" 

"Yes, ma'am, I think so; she knows you could 
have no object in deceiving her; while the thing 
I care most for in the world, is to keep her from 
fretting, and she knows it." 

There was no combating this reasoning, and in 
a short time I received a beautiful answer to my 
letter, well written and well expressed, confirming 
all that Robinson had told us : — That he was the 
youngest son, and had always been carefully and 
tenderly brought up ; that he had two brothers, the 
only other children — one bad gone to Texas, before 
the breaking out of the rebellion, and never having 
heard from him since, they feared he had been 
pressed into the rebel service; fortunately she had 
never heard, and I trust, now, never may hear what 
Robinson had told us, — that, while pressing on, at 
the battle of Fair Oaks, over heaps of the enemy's 
dead, he saw an up-turned face on the field, wounded 
or dead, he knew not which, — that face, he said, he 
never could mistake — it was that of his brother ! 

We tried to convince him that this was most 
13 



146 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

improbable — that his imagination was excited at 
the time, and that the dread that such a thing 
might happen had been "father to the thought;" 
but in vain ; we never could persuade him to the 
contrary; and yet, whether from a doubt in his 
mind, or the dread of the pain it must cause, he 
never, as we afterwards found, had made any 
allusion to the subject in his letters home. 

One morning, after he had been able to be about, 
and even out for some weeks, I was surprised, on 
going into his ward, to find him in bed again. 

"Why, Eobinson, I am sorry to see you there! 
What have you been doing?" 

He hesitated, twisted the end of his coverlet, but 
made no answer. 

" Nothing wrong, I'm very sure of that. It 
wasn't your own fault, was it?" said I, fearing 
he thought I doubted him, as so many of the 
relapses here are caused by excess, the moment 
the men are able to be out, and I well knew there 
was no such danger here. 

He looked up at me, at once, with his clear, 

honest eyes, and said, "Yes, Miss , all my 

own fault; but I thought she worried so " 

"Your mother?" I questioned. 

" Yes, ma'am ; and if I could just slip my arm 
into ray coat-sleeve long enough to have my pic- 
ture taken, she'd see it was better, and it would set 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 147 

her mind at rest more than all the letters I could 
write." 

So to satisfy this mother's heart, the poor wounded 
shoulder had been forced into its sleeve, giving him, 
as it did, several weeks of added suffering and con- 
finement to his bed. Can any one wonder that such 
a man should have won his way to our hearts; — or 
at our regret, when we found he was to be trans- 
ferred to another hospital, at some distance from 
the city? We thus lost sight of him for many 
months. Several times when I asked after him, 
at our own hospital, I was told that he had been 
there but a short time since ; sometimes the week 
before ; sometimes only the day before ; but it so 
happened that we never met. His wound, they 
told me, was far from well, varying very much; 
some days giving hope that it would heal, and 
then bursting out again. I had received many 
and urgent letters from his mother, before he 
left us, begging me to use all the influence I could 
bring to bear, to have him transferred to a hosj^ital 
near his home; (this was, of course, before the 
present order on that subject had been given) but 
on applying to the surgeon, I found that he con- 
sidered his wound far too serious to attempt the 
journey, and that Eobinson so fully agreed with 
him, that I wrote the poor disappointed mother 
to that effect, trying to console her with the hope 
of restoring him to her, ere very long, perfectly 



148 NOTES OF HOSfPITAL LIFE. 

cured. The winter slipped away; the pressure 
of present hospital duties and interests had almost 
crowded out all thoughts of Eobinson, when I am 
surprised, one sunny April afternoon, to receive a 
note from one of our lady visitors, telling me of 
Eobinson's extreme illness, and that it is scarcely 
supposed he can recover. 

An hour later finds M. and myself driving rapidly 
out to the hospital where he now is ; and here we 
are at the gates ; how shall we enter ! Ah ! we do 
not now fear a guard with a bayonet, as we should 
have done some time since; and fifteen minutes 
more suffices for all the necessary " red tape " con- 
nected with admittance, and w^e are at the door 
of Eobinson's ward, listening to the wardmaster's 
answer to our question : 

"Yes, ladies, walk in; but he won't know you; 
he's too low, and he's flighty all the time." 

" Wont know us !" Robinson not know us I We 
cannot believe that ; but see ! he is leading the 
way; and we follow to a bed w^here lies a man 
tossing restlessly, and talking, or rather muttering 
to himself in an indistinct tone; his bandaged 
shoulder and arm resting on a pillow, for an opera- 
tion has been performed — a large piece of bone 
extracted — and the result still doubtful. Doubtful ? 
No; too certain; that face is enough. Poor mother 
in your western home, you can never look upon 
3^our boy, till you meet at the final Bar, in the 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 149 

presence of your Judge ! God in his mercy grant 
that it may be to spend a happy eternity together ! 

And yet, as we stand, we find ourselves almost 
doubting whether this can really be our merry, 
laughing, whistling Eobinson. Little hope, indeed, 
that he will recognize us, but let us try. 

"Eobinson, do you know me?" He starts, and 
in a moment the vacant gaze changes into one of 
his old bright smiles of recognition. 

" Know you ! Why shouldn't I know you ? How 

long it is, Miss , since I have seen you, — and 

you too," added he, stretching out his hand to M. ; 
but even as he spoke, his expression changed, and 
his mind wandered again. 

And this was the end of all our care — this the 
result of so many weary months of suifering. He 
seemed pleased at our coming, and would answer 
any direct question, but could not sustain a con- 
versation of even a few moments. We found our 
old friend, " handsome Harry," of concert memory, 
who had been transferred at the same time, estab- 
lished here as Eobinson's devoted nurse, although 
entirely unable to move without crutches. He told 
us that the surgeon had told him that morning, 
that if his famity wished to see him, he had better 
telegraph for them at once. Eobinson heard us, 
and catching the word " telegraph," said quickly, 
" Don't telegraph ; father's poor, and he might 
13* 



150 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

come on; I'll be better soon, and get a furlough, 
and go out to them." 

"But, Eobinson," said I, "you are very ill; per- 
haps you may not be better, and you would like to 
see your father." 

" I don't think I'm very ill — they said so to-day; 
but I think I'll come round soon." 

The next moment he was on the field, and evi- 
dently going over the fatal " Fair Oaks " fight. 

His friend Harry told us that it had been his 
most earnest desire and longing to see his father; 
and that he had urged him, some days ago, if he 
should be worse, to let them know at home. I 
therefore wrote the telegram on his table, and we 
drove to the office on our return to the city, that 
no time might be lost. 

I was detained at home for the two succeeding 
days ; but some of our ladies went out to see him 
each day, as he was a general favorite ; one lady 
going in a pouring rain, although she knew that 
she would have nearly a mile to walk after leaving 
the cars ; their report of the case was most unfavor- 
able. On the third day, the Eev. Mr. , who had 

been a most constant and faithful friend to Robin- 
son, in our hospital, went out with me. When we 
arrived, we found him in a terrible state of excite- 
ment; he had been talking, and was now almost 
shrieking, and dashing himself from side to side. 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE, 151 

" It's no use speaking to him, to-day,'^ said the 
wardmaster; "he don't know anybody." 

But once again I tried it, and once again he 
extended his hand, and repeated my name, and 

then said, "And Mr. , how very kind in him 

to come !" 

I sat down by him, and tried to soothe and calm 
that dreadful restlessness ; his mind was too much 
gone for words, I only gently stroked his brow and 
fanned him. "I am out on the water; out on the 
water!" was his one cry, from a low tone, ascend- 
ing till it amounted almost to a scream. Truly he 
was " out on the water," and where was compass 
or chart for the final voyage ? Those words, with 
the constant repetition of his brother's name, were 
the last I ever heard him utter. The only moment 

of calmness I noticed, was when Mr. knelt 

at his bedside and repeated those soul-soothing 
Prayers, from the " Visitation of the Sick." He 
attempted no conversation, for we well knew 
Eobinson was in no state to bear it. We had felt 
from the first, that Prayer /or him, was all that we 
could off'er; not with him, as his intervals of con- 
sciousness were merely momentary. His father 
had not yet arrived, and there appeared little hope 
that he could now do so, in time, as he was very 
much lower than on my last visit, and evidently 
sinking. As our presence could give him no com- 
fort, we left him with heavy hearts. 



152 NOTES OF hoSpital life. 

When I reached there the next day, I found that 
an order had been given prohibiting all admittance 
for visitors to his ward, as the surgeon thought that 
Eobinson had been excited by those he had seen 
the day before, but that his father had come, and 
that we could see him; he had arrived that morning. 

There are few things connected with this hospital 
work which I recall with more pleasure than the 
simple, earnest gratitude of this bronzed and 
weather-beaten old man, for the trifling kindnesses 
which we had been able to offer to his boy. There 
was something about him altogether so real, so 
honest, genuine, and sincere, that one could not 
help feeling drawn to him at once. He was a 
rough, plain, Western man, primitive in the ex- 
treme ; but no one could listen to him without 
the consciousness that a warm, true, noble heart, 
beat beneath that uncouth exterior. 

Had the telegram been a day later, he could not 
have reached here for nearly a week longer. The 
train, which only runs on certain days, left the 
morning after he received the news ; he had 
travelled night and day, making every connection, 
and performing the journey as rapidly as it could 
be done. 

His boy, he said, had recognized him, and he was 
pleased to find him better than he had hoped for. 
He thought with care he would get well now, and 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 153 

he was going at once to telegraph the good news to 
his wife. 

We were thunderstruck; how could he be so 
deceived ? For although we had not seen Eobin- 
son that day, we well knew he was in a condition 
from which he could not rally. It seemed therefore 
no kindness to allow his mother to be tortured with 
false hope, and we earnestly represented (hard as 
it seemed to do so) that the surgeons did not look 
for any improvement ; but all in vain, — he had seen 
sickness — he had seen doctors mistaken before now 
— his boy was going to get well ; so he accompanied 
us to the telegraph station, and sent his message. 
That evening I was told some one wanted to see 

me, from the hospital, and on going out, was 

met by the words, " Miss , my boy's gone, my 

boy's gone!'' and a burst of sobs, which seemed 
as though it must shake that poor old frame to 
pieces. 

He had scarcely left, in the morning, to send his 
hopeful telegram, when the change took place, and 
Eobinson breathed his last just as his father reached 
his bedside. The blow fell heavier, as we had feared, 
from the strong hope he had persisted in entertain- 
ing, and even then it seemed as though he were too 
much bewildered and stunned to realize fully what 
had occurred. There was something inexpressibly 
touching in the grief of that poor, bowed-down old 
man, shattered as he was, too, b}^ hard travel and 



154 NOTES OF HOTSPITAL LIFE. 

loss of rest ; and yet I hardly knew how to comfort 
him, or to answer that sad appeal, " How can I go 
hack to his mother without him?^' Deep grief 
must ever bear with it a reverence of its own, and 
this seemed something one scarcely dared meddle 
with. 

He said the funeral was to take place the next 
afternoon, and begged that the ladies who had been 
so kind to him would be present for his mother's 
sake ; he thought it would comfort her to know it. 
I readily consented, and promised to inform the 
others. 

He rose to go, and drawing a little paper from 
his pocket, said, " I thought maybe you might care 
for this ; it is a lock of my boy's hair, which I cut 
off for you, and I thought his mother would be 
glad to know you had it." 

I expressed my feelings in a few words, which 
seemed to soothe and gratify him. 

That poor mother seemed never out of his 
thoughts; and again and again would he repeat 
that piteous question, "How can I go back to her 
without him?'' 

But he need not have feared; that mother's heart 
was anchored on the Eock which alone can with- 
stand the storms of earth. Listen to but one 
sentence from her first letter (to one of the ladies, 
who had been a kind and constant correspondent,) 
after that sad return. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 155 

"At first it seemed I could not bear it. My bright- 
faced, joyous boy — my sunbeam ! But soon came 
the thought, how short the journey would be for 
me to go to him, and that my sunbeam would now 
shed its ray upon me from the sky, to light my 
path onward and upward.'^ 

It would be of little avail, to go into the dreary 
details of that dreariest afternoon. Touching in 
the extreme did it seem to see the little band (for 
the ladies willingly agreed to the request to be 
present) take their places as mourners, with the 
father; mourners in reality, though so lately 
strangers; mourners, for we claimed a right to 
grieve; for was it not, as 1 have said, a young 
life, given for our country as well as his ? — for the 
one common cause, which forms so strong a bond 
between all loyal hearts ? 

A heavy, pouring rain added to the general 
gloom; the only comfort came from the words 
of our Burial Service, which must always fall with 
blessed balm upon the sorrowful soul. It was 
performed at his father's request, and with the 
permission of the surgeon in charge, by Eobinson's 

kind and true friend, the Eev. Mr. , to whom I 

have alluded before. 

It was a long, long time ere I could forget the 
face of that broken-hearted old father, as — every- 
thing over — he stood at the door, as we drove off, 
leaving him lonely and desolate among strangers. 



166 NOTES OF HO'SPITAL LIFE. 

He was to start that night alone, in the rain, on 
his sad, homeward journey, and seemed to long to 
keep us with him to the last ; and how we longed 
to stay to comfort him ! But we must say goodbye, 
and with a long, warm grasp of that rough hand, 
we parted, and one more hospital sorrow was over. 
Brave, gentle, heroic heart ! The aching limb, 
the suffering frame, the strained, excited nerves 
are stilled forever. Eobinson sleeps in a land of 
strangers ; but the turf that covers that " soldier's 
grave " will be moistened and kept green by the 
tears of those who can never forget that bright 
example of noble unselfishness, and beautiful 
patience under severest suffering and trial. 

"I AM OUT ON THE WATER!" 

U. S. A. Hospital, April, 1863. 

Out on the water ! No compass, no chart ! 
The sails all in ribbons ; the timbers apart ! 
The vessel is tossing, the storm driving fast, 
Out on the water ; nor rudder, nor mast ! 

Out on the water ! The dark night hath come ; 
The ocean is boiling and seething in foam ; 
We see the waves break o'er the poor battered boat, — 
Out on the water ; a soul is afloat ! 

Out on the water ! Quick ! reach him a spar ! 
It is not too late, drift he never so far ; 
Hold to it ! Cling to it while the waves toss. 
Out on the water, — the Spar of The Cross ! 

Out on the water ! Is't harbor at last ; 
Are " the waves of this troublesome world " safely passed ? 
We pray, through That Spar, that the soul hath made Port — 
That, out on the water, The Cross was Support. 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 157 



THE EETUEN TO THE EEGIMENT. 

A BRIGHT, sunshiny week. Moral sunshine, I 
mean ; for like St. Peter's, at Eome, our hospital 
may be said to have " an atmosphere of its own " — 
our brightness or dulness being in a great measure 
dependent upon the state of our patients. Deaths, 
or very severe cases of illness, naturally have their 
eifect in casting a shadow on everything around ; 
but at present, most fortunately, we have nothing 
of the kind ; and our principal grief (though in a 
very mild form) has been from the daily partings 
caused by the return of our men to their regiments; 
which, from some unknown cause, seems to have 
been the sole business of the last few days. The 
" Hegira '^ has been going on steadily through the 
whole week, and we have been busily occupied in 
helping to stow treasures into impossible spaces in 
knapsacks, slipping in some little contribution of 
our own, to call up, perhaps, a smile of surprise 
when opened far from here ; in putting up lunches 
for the travellers — for it has happened that some 
of our brave boys have fainted on the way from 
exhaustion produced by delay in getting their 
meals; therefore, by the surgeon's orders, they 
14 



158 NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 

are always provided when they start — and finally, 
in bidding them " Goodbye, and God speed !'' 

This returning to regiments has amounted to an 
epidemic this week; the contagion is spreading 
rapidly, and it is very plain that Dame Example 
has, in this case, been exerting herself for good. 
She has taken some of our chronic cases by the 
hand, lifted them out of bed, and made them feel 
that effort and firm resolve will do more for them 
than yielding to the languor of a slow convales- 
cence. One may ask, " Is it, then, at the option 
of the men, when they shall return to their regi- 
ments?" 

'• Most certainly not.'' 

" Does not the surgeon decide that point ?" 

" Most certainly he does." 

The surgeon of each ward makes out his list of 
men fit for service, and hands it to the surgeon in 
charge, who in his turn examines the men so 
reported and returns them to their different posts ; 
but, as we all know how much the mind has to do 
with the body, men who have seemed quite unfit 
for duty, often, under the stimulus of one of these 
departures, rouse themselves, make an effort, and 
find that a little exertion was the only thing needed 
to fit them for their work. But, on the other hand, 
this strong desire sometimes carries them too far; 
a case in point occurred this morning. 

" "Why, Shaw, my man ! out of bed to-day ? I'm 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 159 

glad to see you up; you'll soon be off, with the 
other boys." 

This, from the cheerful voice of one of our sur- 
geons, to a man who, from a long fever, had been 
too feeble, for many months, to do more than sit 
up in bed for a short time. 

"That's just it, doctor; Pat's going to-day, and 
I can't let him go without me. I think I could 
bear it, maybe. Won't you let me try ?" 

I noticed a slight look of surprise on the doctor's 
face ; he pressed his finger on the man's pulse, was 
silent for a few moments, and then said, kindly : 

"Perhaps you can go with the next lot; stay 
out of bed, to-day ; try to walk a little about the 
ward; eat more, and I've no doubt you can go 
back soon ; but we should have you back on our 
hands, were we to send you to-day." 

"But Pat, doctor? You see we're from the 
same town; he's young, — only a slip of a boy — 
and I promised his mother I'd see to him. I did 
let him get hit, to be sure, but it wasn't much to 
signify ; my fever was a good bit worse ; we were 
brought here together, and I'm bound to leave 
when he leaves, whether I can shoulder a musket 
or not." 

How glad I was that it happened to be just that 
particular surgeon to whom he made his appeal; 
for it must be admitted, even in this pattern hos- 
pital, that skill and sympathy, power and patience, 



160 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

knowledge and kindliness, are not always combined; 
but in this instance I was very sure the decision 
would be given (whatever it might be) in a manner 
which could not offend ; nor was I disappointed. 

" Well, my friend, if you had told me that you 
had kept Pat from getting hit, I might have taken 
it into consideration, whether, for the sake of Pat's 
mother, it might not be my duty to return a man 
to his regiment who can't walk across this hospital; 
but as, by your own account, you let him get hit, 
I think you'll have to trust him without you, and 
wait here till you're a little stronger ;'' and kindly 
patting him on the shoulder, he laughingly turned 
off. 

Poor Shaw ! It was a sense of duty — certainly 
not any feeling of ability to go — which led to the 
proposition; for as the hope departed, his strength 
went with it. He attempted to rise from his chair 
at the side of the bed, tottered, and w^ould have 
fallen; but I saw it, sprang forward, caught him, 
and threw him backward on the bed, knowing I 
had not strength to support him. 

" I didn't mean to knock you down, Shaw, though 
it looks a good deal like it," said I, as there was a 
general laugh, amongst those nearest to him, who 
witnessed the proceeding. 

No answer. The effort had been too much for 
him — he had fainted. I called an orderly to bring 
me water quickly, and bathed his temples from 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 161 

the cologne bottle in my pocket, but he did not 
revive. 

"What's the fuss?" said one, coming up behind 
me. 

" Miss has knocked the breath out of Shaw, 

that's all." 

"And he's knocked the color out of her; she's 
whiter than he is." 

" Don't talk ; get me some water," said I, hastily. 

" La ! miss, you're not really minding, are you ? 
He always has them turns when he tries to sit up ; 
and he's gone a good bit, and we don't mind, he'll 
come round ; he's been fretting at little Pat, there, 
going without him, and wanted to go back to his 
regiment with him. Fine hand at a march, 
wouldn't you be, eh, Shaw ? " said he, as the 
latter opened his eyes. 

With rough kindness, he put his hand under 
Shaw's head, raised it, and held the water to his 
lips. Shaw roused himself, looked round, and 
seemed gradually recalling what had occurred. 

" Drink, old fellow ! and you'll soon come round. 
It's my advice to you, to stay in your bed till 
you're fit to get out of it } you ought to be ashamed 
to make a lady look like that." 

"Be quiet, Gilman," said I; " I'm not frightened 
at all ; I've seen worse sights here than a fainting 
man ; it was only the effort of suddenly throwing 
him backward, which I felt for the moment." 
14* 



162 NOTES OF H08PITAL LIFE. 

But I have no doubt Gilman's rebuke was of far 
more service to Shaw than my ready sympathy 
would have been ; for it roused him, and diverted 
his mind from his own sorrows. He did not at all 
know what he had done; but was profuse in be- 
wildered apologies for some unknown wrong to 
me, which he seemed to feel convinced that he 
had committed; although the " how, why, or what" 
was wrapped in mj^stery. I soon satisfied his mind 
on that point, and then, more guardedly, touched 
upon " Pat;" promised to see to his comfort as far 
as possible ; give him good advice as well as good 
food, — little doubting which would be the more 
welcome, — and finally, promising Shaw to return 
as soon as they were off, I hurried away, fearing I 
was already too late to say goodbye. 

These partings are brighter things for those who 
go, than for those who remain ; it is as true here, 
as in other cases, that " Les peines du depart sont 
j)Our celui qui reste." The bustle, the excitement 
of getting off, the hope of service, the prospect of 
change of scene, make the going something pleas- 
ant, even to those whose patriotism is not at fever 
heat; while, for those who remain, the sight of 
others going, the consciousness of their own ina- 
bility thus more painfully forced upon their minds, 
the sense of confinement, make the hours after one 
of these departures a somewhat sad affair, and we 
have to exert all our powers to restore cheerfulness. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. IQS 

A bustling scene meets me at the door of our 
room. A busy group is crowded there ; some 
kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and 
blankets; some jumping into the well known blue 
overcoats, which have enjoyed a profounder rest 
than their owners have done since their entrance 
into the hospital; some settling their caps well 
down over their eyes, as though cap and " caput '* 
were never again to part company; while some 
(yes ! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. 
M. calls me, and I hurriedly enter. 

"They're going; you'll be too late to see them 
off.'' 

" Hurrah, boys ! Come on. We're off. Goodbye, 
ladies ! We won't forget you. If ever the rebs 
come here, send for us; we'll stand by you, and 
fight for you, too." 

" Goodbye, ma'am, if I get hit I hope they'll 
send me here." 

" We've had a bully time here, and we're proper 
sorry to go back. ' Salt horse ' and ' hard tack ' 
will come pretty hard, after all your nice little 
messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly 
for all you've done for us." 

Such are the parting words, rough it may be, 
but coming from the heart, and therefore far more 
valuable than the elegant insincerity of more 
polished partings. But as character is shown in 
every action of life, we may easily detect the 



164 NOTES OF HOS*PITAL LIF3E. 

difference of nature even in their mode of saying 
goodbye. One comes forward with frank smile, 
and hand extended, his whole soul beaming from 
his honest eyes; he is glad to have known you, 
somewhat sorry to leave you, but so very happy 
to be off, that there is little room for any other 
feeling; and you take leave of him with satisfac- 
tion, sure that his contented nature will adapt 
itself to whatever circumstances may surround 
him. Another comes up really sorry to go, but 
thinking it beneath a soldier's dignity to show 
feeling; he therefore tries to assume a perfectly 
indifferent air, but like everything assumed, it sits 
ill upon him, and we all know that in his heart 
" sober Sam," as the boys nickname him, is more 
sorry to leave us than he cares to acknowledge. 
A third shocks our patriotism by openly declaring 
he don't want to go; he don't care to fight, and 
he's sure he's not fit for it either. Ah ! Bob, isn't 
it that you love your own ease a little too well ? 
The field may not be quite so comfortable as it is 
here, but it is unworthy of a soldier to mind such 
trifles as want of bed, and occasional want of food. 
But Bob doesn't think so, and whatever his other 
faults may be, he is honest in declaring his opinions. 
But here come the others, and we have but a few 
minutes more. 

" Groodbye, Brown ; take care of yourself; we 
shall miss you when we want our errands done." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 165 

" Goodbye, "Williams ; don't forget your promise/' 

" Goodbye, Simpson ; what shall we do without 
you for a wardmaster ? " 

" Goodbye, John; come back with shoulder-straps, 
and God bless you !" 

That bright young face looks still brighter, as he 

says, " Why, Miss , that's what they all say to 

me ; I've been through the wards bidding the boys 
goodbye, and they all say ' God bless you, John I' 
Why do they say that to me?" 

I could have told him without much difficulty 
why that genial, sunny nature, so full of bravery 
and beauty, of life and love, had won its way to the 
hearts of " the boys," and called forth that warm 
" God bless you." The Prayer from so many hearts 
seems to have won its answer; God has blessed 
him and guarded him from harm. Nobly has he 
fought, and the shoulder-straps are won. Promo- 
tion on the field " for distinguished services," has 
been gained; and we now have the pleasure of 
directing our quondam " Private " John's letters, 
to " Captain " John, of the Army of the Potomac. 
But as he is pressed on in the crowd, before I can 
answer his question, I notice a pale, quiet youth, 
always retiring and gentle, standing at my side 
with a hesitating air. 

" Well, George, you're off too ; I won't forget 
you, and you mustn't forget me." 

He still stands, and still hesitates, saying nothing. 



166 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

" Can I do anything for you, before you go, or 
perhaps after ? Can I help you ? tell me." 

" Yes, ma'am, you can help me. If you would 
just let me shake hands with you, I think it would 
help me on the battle-field, to remember it. I saw 
the others come up, but somehow I didn't dare to, 
and I was so afraid I would have to go without." 

Poor George ! Not many of the men are so 
troubled with modesty. Such a little boon to be 
asked for so earnestly I one, too, which half the 
men claim as a right in parting. 

" You didn't think, George, after all our talks, I 
could have let you go without shaking hands with 
you, did you ? No, my boy," said I, holding out 
my hand; " but I will do what will be more likely 
to help you on the battle-field, pray for you; and 
now, goodbye." 

He grasped my hand, and as he held it, a hot 
tear fell on it; he seemed shocked, dropped it, and 
rushed from the room into the crowd waiting at 
the door to start. The signal sounded, and they 
were gone. 

"God go with them!" said an earnest voice at 
my side. 

God will go with them ! Doubt it not, 

Ye, whose fond, aching hearts 
Fear that your treasures are less safe, 

Because from you apart ! 
Love, human love, is powerless. 

From Death or harm to shield ; 
Our very lives, for theirs laid down. 

Could no protection yield. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 167 

God will go with them ! Rest on that. 

When partings make Life dark ; 
He guideth every bullet's course, 

To hit or miss its mark. 
Then trust them amid shot and shell. 

To His unfailing care; 
And bow, submissive hearts, howe'er 

The answer comes to Prayer. 



168 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 



A YISIT TO THE WARDS. 

U. S. A. Hospital. 
And so you really wish, dear C, to take that 
long-promised trip through the wards of our hos- 
pital? Most happy shall I be to escort you; and 
I promise, ere we start, to use every endeavor to 
prevent you from going any deeper than you wish 
into the " horrors of hospital life." You shall not 
see an open wound if I can help it ; — do not imagine 
that I have forgotten the effect upon you of the 
sight of that man's arm the last time that you 
were here ; and yet it was your own fault, for it 
was your expression of interest in him and his 
wound which led to the display; and we, hardened 
creatures that we have become, were not aware of 
your feelings till the harm was done. But put 
yourself under my guidance to-day, and I will 
pick out only the choice specimens. Yet no ! I 
cannot do that exactly, for, in answer to a charge 
brought against me here a few days since, I have 
promised to select the worst cases — the morally 
worst cases, I mean, — in the hospital, to show my 
friends. What was the charge ? you ask. Nothing 
very heinous, to be sure. A friend, to whom I have 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 169 

very often talked of the hospital and its inmates, 
said to one of our medical cadets, as we walked 
through the wards : 

" Tell me, doctor, is a hospital really the paradise 
Miss represents it ? Her soldiers are all per- 
fectionists; they never quarrel, they never swear, 
they never drink, they never gamble; and more 
than this, they never get well ; they are sure to 
die in some romantic way, with an interesting 
wife, mother, or sister, in the distance." 

My answer, of course, was a laugh, trusting to 
my friend, the cadet, to justify me; but here I 
was mistaken. His answer was a mere empty 
word of compliment, as to what the ladies made 
the hospital, etc., leaving the main question un- 
touched. I therefore was compelled to take up 
my own defence, and assure her that the fact of 
ray having preferred to dwell upon the interesting 
cases, was no proof that the hospital contained no 
others ; that we all knew that either in or out of 
a hospital, our strongest feelings were called forth 
by extreme illness and danger. 

" Like a bruised leaf, at touch of Fear, 
Its hidden fragrance Love gives out." 

More than this, that here, as elsewhere, people 
ceased to be interesting when they recovered; 
therefore, most naturally, I had not dwelt much 
upon such cases as had returned, cured, to their 
regiments. I further assured her that I had heard 
15 



170 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE, 

men both quarrel and swear; had seen them both 
drink and gamble within these walls; and that, at 
the very moment we were speaking, a special friend 
of mine — acknowledged to be the worst man in the 
hospital — was in the guard-house; a man who pro- 
bably interested me more deeply and painfully than 
any one here; and whose story, could I tell it, might 
thrill her to her soul's depths ; but in this case also, 
there was an " interesting mother in the distance," 
whose pale, patient, long-suffering face, mutely 
appealing to me from her sweet photograph, must 
seal ni}" lips forever upon that sad subject. Because 
I had told her that oaths were checked in our 
presence, did it follow, I asked her, that they were 
never uttered in our absence ? Because I had said, 
and most truly, that in my whole term of service 
I had never heard a rude word, or seen an act of 
discourtesy, either to myself or any of the lady 
visitors, did it follow that such words or acts never 
passed between themselves ? Because I had shrunk 
from the painfal theme of the guard-house and its 
inmates, did it follow that it was untenanted ? And 
finally, triumphantly made her confess that, like too 
many amongst us, she had formed her conclusions 
on insufficient data, promising, as a reward for her 
generosity in owning herself routed, that hence- 
forth I would reserve the pleasant cases for myself, 
and pick out the worst ones for my friends, as they 
seemed to prefer them. I tell you this, that 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 171 

you may understand Avliy I take you, first of all, 
to the Grossest man here, in preference to the most 
attractive and gentle. You do not care to see him, 
you say. Oh ! yes. For the sake of my promise 
I must show him to you, and after that we can 
look at pleasanter specimens. He will not hurt 
you; it is only that nothing that can be done for 
him ever suits him, unless done by the ladies ; for 
he is no exception to my rule, and is always polite 
to the ladies. Amongst ourselves we call him "The 
Grrumbler," so entirely that we sometimes forget 
his real name. I was amused, the other day, to 
hear M. say, as she designated the diiferent saucers 
of corn-starch which she was giving to one of the 
orderlies, " You'll remember, now, that this is for 
Davis, that for Strickland, that for Jones, and this 
for ' the Grumbler.' '^ 

" For who, ma'am, this last one, did you sa}^ ?" 

"The Grrumbler," repeated M. with perfect un- 
consciousness, as she continued to hunt spoons 
for the different saucers. 

I quietly enjoyed the bewilderment of the 
orderly, but said nothing to enlighten him. 

" That's what a good many of them are, ma'am, 
when I goes back without enough for all, but I 
don't know which one you mean now." 

M., thus recalled to herself, laughingly explained; 
and the idea that such was the ladies' name for him, 
seemed to afford special delight to the poor orderly, 



172 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

who has doubtless been frequently the victim of 
his wrath. 

" You've hit it this time, ladies; he does nothing 
but grumble from morning till night ; nothing that 
I can do will suit, though I've tried till I am tired, 
to please him." 

Whether he has confided to him our flattering 
name for him or not, I have not yet been able to 
discover, but think it not at all unlikely. As we 
pass along to his bed, just notice the tables of the 
men, and see how carefully they have the " Lares 
and Penates" treasured up on them. Pictures 
of wife, mother, and sister, little remembrances 
carefully preserved; the Bible, — often the parting 
gift — and once or twice a little toy, which seemed 
to keep home fresh in the father's heart ; but one 
thing has often struck me with surprise; these all, 
as you may see, lie open on the table, but you will 
never see the bride elect — the promised one — so 
exposed; her memory and her face are as carefully 
guarded as though she were in danger of being 
captured and carried off by storm. I have seen 
quite as much reserve and delicacy of feeling upon 
this point, as I have ever met with in higher circles. 
The story comes at last; but it is often after months 
of watching and nursing, when you fancy every 
detail of home has been given over and over again, 
— it comes in bashful words and with heightened 
color, " I thought I'd like you to know;" or, " You 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 173 

won't mention, will 3^ou ? Bat" — and then conies 
confession. Or again, a sudden burst of gratitude 
seems to find vent in showing you that precious 
one, so carefully hidden all this long time; and a 
photograph is mutely placed in your hands, and 
of course no woman ever yet said to any picture 
so given, "Who is this?" Ah! well. I fear you 
are tired, long ere this, of my earnest desire to 
prove that the human heart is the same all the 
world over, prince or peasant, baron or beggar, 
senator or serf; so let us walk on, and speak to 
our cross friend. 

There he sits, on that bed opposite to us, in the 
red shirt, w^ith his arm in the sling; that's a bad 
wound, and I often excuse his irritability, because 
he is suffering so much with it, and I know that 
the doctor thinks amputation may be necessary. 
He is a good-looking man, if he would only smile 
and look good-natured, instead of frowning and 
scolding all the time. There comes his dinner; 
now listen, but don't go up to him, just yet; if 
he sees the ladies, he won't express his views so 
plainly. 

Grumbler, loquitur. "Call that my dinner? 
Pitch it out, 1 say, pitch it out, or I'll pitch you 
out ! Didn't I tell you the next time 3'ou brought 
me that greasy stuff you call soup, I'd report you ? 
say, didn't I?" 

Down-trodden orderly, rising at last. " Pitch it 
15* 



174 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

out yourself ! The other boys can eat it; I don't 
see why you're so mighty nice/' 

" Mighty nice, indeed ! I tell you it's grub not 
fit for an almshouse, that's what it is." 

Let us go up and speak to him ; perhaps the 
sight of the ladies may allay his wrath. 

" What's the matter, George ? w^hat are you 
speaking so violently about?" 

" I beg your pardon, ma'am; I didn't know you 
w^ere there." 

" But the whole hospital might have heard you ; 
and I just want to know, for curiosity, whether 
you really referred to that chicken soup, when you 
said it was "grub fit for an almhouse?" because, 
if 3-0U did, I want to tell you that I have just 
finished feeding a very sick man with it, and that, 
as I tasted it before giving it to him, I thought 
how nicely it was made ; and that, tired as I was, 
I should not object to have a little ordered for 
me." 

" It's that coat of grease on the top, ma'am, that 
1 can't stand; it makes me sick, and I've told him 
over and over not to come near me with it, big fool 
that he is." 

" But, George, it's very easy to remove that; it's 
been standing, that's all ; look here, just take your 
spoon, and skim it off; there, see how nicely it 
looks below. Do you know I think you're some- 
thing like that soup yourself, crusty and disagree- 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. l75 

able on the surface, but skim that off, go deeper, 
and I don't believe you're such a bad fellow, at 
heart, cross as you seem ! " 

'^Why, do I seem cross, Miss ? I don't 

mean to be so, only they never bring me Avhat 
I want ; and this plaguey arm keeps aching so all 
the time/' 

" That's just what I thought ; and I am sure that 
if we could only get that arm better, you would be 
a different man. I am sure you suffer w^ith it a 
great deal. Try and take this nice corn-starch, 
maybe you'll like it better than the soup." 

"That! Old scorched stuff! You won't catch 
me taking that in a hurry, I guess." 

" Scorched ? Why, George, it isn't scorched." 

" Not scorched, ma'am ? No milk, pretended to 
be boiled, ever came out of that kitchen yet, that 
wasn't scorched." 

" That, I happen to know^, is not so ; but just tell 
me one thing, — have you tasted it ?" 

"Not I, and I don't mean to; I know it's bad, 
without tasting it." * 

" Thank you, George, for your gratitude. We 
made that this morning, w^ith our own hands, with 
particular care, and put the flavoring in it you said 
you liked the other day; it has never been near 
the kitchen, and I can answer for it's not being 
scorched." 

" You made it, ma'am ? The ladies ? Then it's 



176 NOTES OF HOfTPTTAL LIFE. 

the kind I like, I beg your pardon. Billy brought 
it in with the dinner, and I thought he got it out 
of the kitchen." 

" We sent it to you by Billy; but, if it had come 
from the kitchen, wouldn't it have been as well to 
try it, before condemning it so strongly? I feel 
much mortified that this lady, who has come to 
see the hospital, where we try so hard to have the 
food nicely prepared, and delicacies provided for 
the men, can go home and tell that she herself 
heard one of them say, when his dinner was 
brought to him, ' Pitch it out,' for it was ' grub 
not fit for an almshouse.' You ought to be careful 
what you say, George, for perhaps you do not 
know what is the fact, that the testimony of the 
men, with regard to these things, outweighs ten- 
fold all that the surgeons or the ladies can say. I 
constantly hear the remark, ' Oh ! yes. Of course 
it is to the interest of the surgeons to represent 
that everything is as it should be ; the ladies are 
proud of their hospital, and of course j^raise it; 
but ask the men, — they are the ones to tell the 
truth about it — ask them if they are comfortable, 
and get what they want; if they are satisfied, be 
sure it is all right, and vice versa.' Now, this lady 
has come in, and you know what she has heard, as 
the testimony of the only man she has yet listened 
to. Is this quite fair, George?" 

" Oh ! Miss , I'm very soriy, indeed I am. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 177 

I didn't mean it, you know I didn't; only this 
plaguey arm, as I tell you, keeps me snappish- 
like." 

" Well, never mind, I don't think you've done 
much harm this time ; this lady shall taste both 
soup and corn-starch, if she will, and then she 
can bear her own testimony that the one is not 
greasy, nor the other scorched. Only grumble a 
little less next time, and we will forgive you now. 
But come, dear C, we are wasting too much time 
on one case, and there are so many here that I 
want you to see.'^ 

Ah ! here comes one of our finest specimens, a 
whole-souled, true-hearted man ; one whom you 
may safely trust, and never fear that you will 
find your confidence misplaced, which, I am sorry 
to say, is not always the case. You shake your 
head, and mean by that, I suppose, that a man 
looking as well as he does, certainly might go back 
to his regiment. 1 grant you that he looks per- 
fectly well, but let me beg you not alwaj^s to be 
guided by aj^pearances here, any more than else- 
where. Some of those we have supposed best 
fitted for service, were really the least able to 
bear exertion. I remember a case last winter, 
which taught me a lesson on that point. Corning, 
one of our men, who was afterwards made ward- 
master, and whom I have often mentioned to 
you as one of my favorites, is the one I have in 



178 NOTES OF HOSI>ITAL LIFE. 

my mind. When he first came to us, he was 
suffering from a severe kick from a horse, which 
had broken several ribs; but after a few months 
he appeared so perfectly well, that w^e used very 
frequently to take the liberty of judging, and 
wonder why he w^as not returned to his regiment. 

One afternoon, during a violent snow-storm, he 
undertook to join one or two of the men in a 
game of snow-balls; that evening, when we were 
preparing the suppers for the sick men. Corning 
failed to appear as usual for his ward, and we 
found that the exertion of the afternoon had been 
quite too much for him; he was in bed, and for 
weeks was not himself again. This showed me 
how thoroughly unfit for any but the lightest duty 
a man might be, and yet appear — as our friend here 
does — in good health. '^ Our Charlie," as the men 
call him, is a general favorite; he was one of our 
orderlies, and has just been made wardmaster, and 
has proved very popular in that capacity. He has 
one of those sunny, genial natures which create an 
atmosphere of their own, and brighten every one 
who may chance to come within the sphere of their 
influence. Poor fellow^ ! he was giving me an 
account, yesterday, of rather an unfortunate pic- 
nic which he was at the day before. A party of 
the men had obtained passes to go upon one of 
those excursions which are so popular here in 
summer; he had foolishly taken with him his 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 179 

pocket-book, containing thirty dollars (''John 
Greenback," as they irreverently term the pay- 
master, having paid the hosj^ital a visit the day 
before), which in a very short time he found he 
had lost. He had been sitting on the grass, with 
a set of men all of whom were known to him 
except one, whose appearance he had not liked 
when he joined the party; this man, who had 
just left them hurriedly, he felt convinced had 
taken it. On giving notice to the police, he was 
advised to say nothing, but keep a close watch, 
and he would jn-obably be able to detect him. 

" It wasn't the money I cared for, a bit, Miss 

," said poor Charlie, in telling me of it, " but 

the pocket-book had that paper in it, and you know 
that was more to me than all in Uncle Sam's 
treasury." 

I well knew what "that paper" meant, for it 
was through it that we first found out what a true, 
loving heart beat in the breast of our bright, frank, 
off-hand Charlie. His brother, also in the army, 
had been wounded, brought here to another hos- 
pital, and died there while Charlie was here, without 
his knowing it. With that thoughtful kindness 
which has brought comfort to many an aching 
heart during this sad war, one of the ladies pre- 
served a lock of his hair for his family; and 
hearing, after all was over, that Charlie was here, 
brought it to him, and gave him all the particulars 



180 NOTES OF HOS«PITAL LIFE. 

of his brother's death. No one, who had once 
heard Charlie give that account, could ever forget 
it; the deep, bitter sorrow, which refused to be 
comforted; the unavailing regret — almost self- 
rej^roach — with which he wound up, "And to think 
I was so near, and never went to him!" — this 
seemed to be more than he could bear. 

We always found ourselves more ready to sym- 
pathize with him in his grief, because he entered 
into ever}^ one else's interests so warmly, whether 
of joy or sorrow. " That paper," therefore, I knew 
contained this precious lock of hair; which, he 
told me only a few daj'S ago, he wanted to send 
to his mother, — " all she can ever have of her 
boy" — and had delayed doing so, only because 
he wished to give it to the chaplain to send for 
him. It needed no words of his, to tell me what 
a loss this was to him. Later in the day, however, 
as he was walking through the grounds, he saw 
the man whom he had suspected, seated under a 
tree with a woman, — who afterwards proved to be 
his sister, and to whom, they found, he had given 
one-half of the money. Notice was given at once 
to the police, who immediately arrested both of 
them. On being detected, the man instantly put 
a roll of notes into his mouth, and tried to chew 
them up; this was speedily prevented by the 
policeman, who throttled him and compelled him 
to disgorge them. " But," said Charlie, " I begged 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 181 

him not to choke him, as I wanted to hear where 
the pocket-book was, much more than to get the 
money." This, however, the man obstinately re- 
fused to return, nor could it be found upon him 
after the strictest search. "After telling him what 
was in it, too," continued Charlie, " after begging 
and beseeching him by the love of his own mother, 
just to give me the pocket-book, and keep the 
money (evidently, from what he told me, to the 
infinite disgust of the policeman), could you be- 
lieve me, that he wouldn't listen to me, but walked 
on, just as if he didn't hear me? As we went 
along, I saw him suddenly pitch something over 
a fence at his side ; a thought darted into ray mind ; 
over that fence I dashed, and sure enough, down 
there in the grass, was my little white paper; and 
now they may keep my money, and welcome." It 
seemed to perplex him terribly, w^here the paper 
could have been concealed during the search, or 
how the man happened to have it out of the pocket- 
book; but such was the fact, just as he related it. 
He told me that the police had been at the hospital, 
that day, bringing him fifteen dollars, — half of his 
money — which the sister had confessed that her 
brother had given to her at the time, and requiring 
him to go and give evidence against the man, which 
he was most unwilling to do, having, as he said, 
" secured all that he cared for." 

But while I am making a long story of Charlie's 
16 



182 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

loss, you are looking eagerly at that bed in the 
corner; that poor fellow, who is so pale and lan- 
guid, is from Wisconsin; he has injured his spine, 
and cannot sit up for more than a few moments at 
a time. He is one of the mournful ones, and our 
most earnest attempts to cheer him seldom produce 
more than a feeble smile. JSTothing could convince 
you more of the blessing of buoyancy of disposition 
and a sanguine temperament, than a short time 
passed in one of these hospitals ; you see at once 
that it carries a man more than half the way 
towards cure. But nothing we can do will brighten 
poor Granger; he seems gentle and grateful, but 
persistently depressed, and that makes us feel much 
discouraged about him. You are looking at the 
gentleman sitting at his side; yes, it is, as you 

think, Mr. , one of our most valuable aid? 

here ; he has, for many months, been assisting th« 
chaplain in visiting, reading, writing for, and talk 
ing to the men, and most grateful do we all feel to 
him for his services here. No sun too hot, no air 
too heavy, through this whole summer, to find him 
at his post; and the men repay his kindness Avith 
the warmest attachment. 

Look at this man just coming in at the door; it 
is poor Cuthbert; he does not belong in this ward, 
but he wanders where he likes. His is a sad case. 
A bullet struck him on the head, injuring his brain; 
at times he is perfectly himself, but usually his 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 183 

mind seems quite gone ; it is truly pitiable to see 
him. His wife and little children are here in the 
city; she tells us that he was a most industrious, 
faithful workman, before he enlisted; honest and 
sober, and the kindest husband. We are very sure 
of his unselfishness, for no matter what we brought 
him to take, whilst he was confined to bed, his 
answer was always the same, '-Give it to Bob;'' 
or " Bob's wounded, give it to him." He rejected 
everything for himself with these words, fancying 
himself still on the field with his friend. We found, 
to our surprise, that "Bob" was none other than 

young Lieutenant , well known here, whom he 

had been nursing and watching most tenderly till 
he had received his own wound. The news of 
"Bob's" death, which reached us soon after we 
arrived, would doubtless have been a great sorrow 
to him, but the poor fellow never could understand 
it; and we begged the men to say nothing about 
it, during his sane days, as we all wished him spared 
this additional sufi'ering. He will get his discharge 
soon, but his poor wife will now have to support 
him, as well as her children. Surely a Soldier's 
Home, for those disabled by this war, is one of the 
charities most imperatively demanded at present. 
I know that efforts are even now on foot to obtain 
it, but it is a thing which should, which must, be 
pressed. Why pause till we see it accomplished, 
and those suffering and thrown out of employment 



184 NOTES OF HOS.PITAL LIFE. 

for life, provided with a home? Why rest till we 
have actually placed within its walls the army who 
have returned — many of them in the prime of life 
— maimed and mutilated, to our midst — cut off 
from all possibility of advancement for the rest 
of life — helpless, and too often hopeless? Shall 
we not show them that we can at least appreciate 
all that they have done for us ? — that we can, and 
will gladly deny self, to give to them the home 
which their sufferings and self-sacrifice have so 
deservedly w^on ? We need but the earnest pur- 
pose to secure its fulfilment, and I cannot feel that 
Philadelf>hia will ever rest till she has added to her 
generous labors in sending men forth, a liberal 
provision for the comfort and maintenance of the 
disabled, on their return.* 

Let us pass down on this side, as we go out of 
the ward. I want you to look at that man's eye, 
it is so full of bright, keen intelligence and quick 
wit. I w^ish that we had time to talk with him; 
but it is such a difficult matter to break off, that, 
w^ithout an abundance of time, I ahvays hesitate to 
begin. The other morning I happened to enter the 
ward just as inspection was over; (which, you 
know, means the time at w^hich the surgeon in 
charge makes his rounds attended by the surgeons 
of each ward;) this n^^n beckoned me to his bedside. 

* This was, of course, written before the establishment of the 
"Soldiers' Home," at the corner of Crown and Race streets. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 185 

" He's a bully man, that head one, ain't he ?" 

Criticism from the men upon any of the officers 
of the hospital, be it favorable or unfavorable, is a 
thing which we strictly discountenance at all times; 

and I therefore said, — assuming, or, as ^^ys, I 

should always say, trying to assume, an air of dig- 
nity— 

'• You should not speak so of the surgeon in 
charge, it is disrespectful ; you must remember 
that he is as much your superior officer, for the 
time, as the colonel of your regiment.'' 

" Faith ! then there's an act of disrespect I'll 
never pay my colonel. He's gone to his account, 
so we'll say no more ; but not a boy of that regi- 
ment will ever " 

This I could not permit ; so I turned at once to 
leave him, finding my moral lessons turned against 
myself, and that " hsec fabula" didn't "docet" the 
respect I intended. 

"Oh! please, miss! don't go — don't be offended! I 
didn't mean it, indeed; I may be rough, but I mean 
no offence; I want to tell you why I called him 
'bully;' just let me, even if you don't like him." 

" It isn't that I don't like him," I endeavored to 
explain, "but that I think you have no right to 
criticise those above you. Were I to allow that, I 
might, on the same principle, allow you to find fault 
with one of the other officers; I never meant that you 
should not be grateful for being so well cared for." 
16* 



186 NOTES OP HOS'PITAL LIFE, 

"That's just where it is, miss; it don't matter 
the being cared for; they cared for me in Wash- 
ington ; but it's the way the caring's done. I'll 
just tell you how it is, in this war. We're all a 
set of ten-pins, stood up to have balls sent at us; 
along they come, and down w^e go. No matter, 
get another set; but still, it may save Uncle Sam 
to mend the broken ones, and use them again; so 
the menders come along, pick you up, feel you all 
over, and see if you're worth mending; if so, you're 
patched up, and stood in your place again. I've 
seen enough of it; but here comes this fellow — I 
beg your pardon, miss, it's surgeon in charge I'm 
thinking you like him called — and he don't say 
much different from other menders; but it's all in 
his e^^e — it says a lot more nor his tongue — it 
says, ' You're flesh and blood, you are, poor fellow ! 
and I'm sorry to see you twisting about Avith pain 
like that, and it's all a bad business, this same, so 
it is.' Do you think I care what a man's tongue 
says, when his eye says that? I tell you, I feel 
better the whole day for one look like that. It's 
my belief that all the talk that's right from the 
heart comes out of the eye, and when men want 
to make you believe things not just so, it's their 
tongue tbey use." 

I did not suggest that it had been remarked, on 
the one hand, that "Language was given to con- 
ceal a man's thoughts;" or, on the other, that 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 187 

" Countenance and gesture are vehicles of thought, 
but their capacity and scope are limited," as I was 
quite sure that he was entirely innocent of any 
plagiarism, either of ideas or their expression. 
But what a lesson in his words for us all ! Here 
is a man confined to his bed, suffering acutely, who 
tells me that he feels better for a whole day — for 
what ? For some kind act to relieve that suffering? 
— some pleasant look, or sprightly game to beguile 
his tedious hours ? — or for 

'' Kind words, so easy to speak, 
But whose echo is endless ? " 

For none of these; but merely for a look — a glance 
of sympathy ! Could we realize the j^riceless value 
of such seeming trifles, surely in our intercourse 
with our fellow-men, we should be more on the 
watch to practice them — more prompt in their 
exercise. It is not that feeling is w^anting, in many 
cases, but perception, — the perception of the mode 
in which we act upon others ; but we must beware 
of forgetting our responsibility on this most im- 
portant point, and remember that 

" Evils are wrought by want of thought, 
As well as want of heart." 

Look at that man stooping down and playing 
with Dick, our hospital pet. A gentleman ? you 
ask, and I cannot wonder that you do. Every one 
who sees him says, " But he isn't one of the pri- 
vates?" He is; but I imagine there is no one 



188 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

here more anxious to flourish in shoulder-straps. 
He has interested me much since I first met him 
here; he was very sick when he came in, but I did 
not see him until he was better, and taking his 
place as one of the orderlies — as our rule is in the 
hospitals, that convalescents turn into wardmasters 
and orderlies, before they are fit for active service 
on the field. His deference to the ladies, and 
certain little graces of manner, showed birth and 
breeding; and I said to M. one day, ''That man 
was born a gentleman." I found that she quite 
agreed with me, and had been struck by the same 
thing. And yet there was an air of dissatisfaction 
at times, and a bitterness of expression which I was 
at a loss to account for. One morning I had brought 
some books to the hospital, and on offering them to 
him, amongst others, he told me that he had so 
injured his eyes by over-study at college, that he 
was unable to use them at all at present. A few 
words more, and I discovered that he was a loyal 
Virginian, who, on the breaking out of the rebellion, 
had left famil}^, friends, and a beautiful home, to 
enlist in our army. All his relations were bitterly 
opposed to the step; and he told me, with much 
pain, that when our army was in the neighborhood 
of his home, he had gone there to see his family, 
but that they had positively refused to see him, or 
even to allow him admittance. I could scarcely 
wonder at his depression after this; but it seemed 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 189 

to me that the consciousness of right, in the step 
he had taken, should have brought him more con- 
tent and peace than he seemed to possess. A few- 
afternoons since, he came in, as usual, with his 
waiter, to carry the supper to the sick men (those 
unable to leave their beds) in his ward. I noticed, 
as I arranged the plates for him, that he looked 
much disturbed, and that his hand trembled. 

" King," said I, " you are hardly strong enough 
yet to carry that w^aiter ; you should ask one of the 
other orderlies to do it for you." 

I seemed to have fired a mine. Setting the waiter 
down upon the table, he burst forth : 

" It's no w^ant of strength. Miss , but w^hat 

would you think if you saw Dr. and Dr. 

(naming two of our surgeons) j)laying wardmaster 
and orderly in a hospital in the South ? My position 
was just what theirs is, and I chafe at this menial 
w^ork. My blood boils at playing waiter for the 
men here ; I can't stand it, and I won't." 

I looked up in surprise. " What should I think, 
King, should I see such a dreadful sight as you 
suggest? I can tell you, very quickly, w^hat I 
should think. If those gentlemen had, for the 
sake of their country, nobly given up every private 
tie as you have done, and, by the fortune of war, 
had been thrown into a hospital, I should honor 
and respect them for fulfilling every duty there 
imposed upon them; and I doubt not that they 



190 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

would do it most cheerfully, as part of the service 
their country asks at their hands. I should like 
to know, also, whether it is less menial for the 
ladies to turn cooks here, than for the men to 
turn waiters ? I cannot recall that I ever " chafed" 
at the "menial work," or that my "blood boiled" 
at cooking eggs, or boiling farina, unless on a hot 
summer's day, when the fire seemed intolerable, 
but never, I am very sure, from shame at the 
occupation. We go even further, for we act both 
cook and waiter. A day never passes that Ave do 
not carry to the men what we have made for 
them, to see if they like it — to know if it suits 
them — or oftener still, to feed them, because they 
are unable to feed themselves. Think what a state 
of fever-heat our blood should be in at this time, 
after two years of such services !" 

" But the case," said he, " is not a parallel one. 
Your service, grateful as we all feel for it, is volun- 
tary, this is compulsory." 

" I thought you were a volunteer, King ? When 
you enlisted, did you specify just the kind of work 
you would do 'r* When your country needed you, 
did you limit the aid you offered ? What matter is it 
to you whether she asks you to fight for her, or to 
serve her by ministering to her sick and wounded 
members, suffering in a common cause from their 
efforts on her behalf." 

" I never thought of it in that light before." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 191 

"Think of it so now, my man; you will be far 
happier. That southern blood is a little too hot, 
and you have failed to perceive that all work is 
dignified and ennobled by the spirit which you 
bring to it. Because you are a classical student, 
and feel that you have talents and acquirements 
which fit you for something higher, you chafe at 
this service; but, believe me, the faithful perform- 
ance of your duties here, will by no means unfit 
you for a command in the field so soon as your 
services there shall win for you the promotion jou 
so much desire. So take up your Avaiter, and don't 
let your blood boil too much as you go up stairs, 
or you may upset my saucers." 

He took my lecture in very good part, and since 
:hen we have been excellent friends. I think, since 
he realized that I preferred talking to him to 
lecturing him, and liked to enter upon higher 
themes with him, which he is so well fitted to 
discuss, that he has become more contented, and 
has resolved to accept his position. Let us spe^k 
to him; notice how his eye brightens and his 
expression changes, as he speaks. 

" Well, King, how are your men to-day ?" 

" I've just been waiting for you. Miss ; Joe 

sent me to ask you for two of those hand-splints 
you received yesterday — for the left hand, please — 
they are for Jarvis and Wright — those very bad 
arms, you know." 



192 NOTES OF HOSi^ITAL LIFE. 

" Oh ! yes. The splints that came with all those 
things, yesterday, from the Sanitary Commission. 
God bless that Sanitary Commission — what should 
we do without it ? Our soldiers here have quite as 
much reason to be grateful as those in the field. 
Look at those shelves — all that wine, those jellies, 
preserves, syrups, and pickles, came from them, as 
well as these cushions, pads, and splints. They 
send us, constantly, fresh eggs, butter, lard, and 
such perishable articles as must be consumed at 
once. Here, King, take these splints, and then 
come back, Avill you, for some pickles I w^ant to 
send to your men." 

" Yes, ma'am, certainly, if I can get down again; 
but Joe is going away on a furlough, to-day, and I 
am to be wardmaster till his return.'' 

" Shall your ' blood boil ' more, or less. King, in 
your new position ?" 

Do you hear that merry laugh, as he goes up the 
stairs? No more fear for him; he is only making 
himself too useful, and we shall be sorry to see 
him returned to his regiment. Yery tired, are 
you, of the study of character? I have about a 
dozen more men here that I should like to show 
you, but I will be merciful, and send you home, 
now, quite aware that you feel amply satisfied 
with your hospital diet to-day. 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 193 



OUE GETTYSBUEG MEN. 

July, 1863. 

It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, 
relief, and safety, that Ave have entered upon our 
duties this week. The one absorhinsr idea of the 
last ten days — the impatience for the news of each 
hour as it passed — the eagerness to seek the opin- 
ions of friends, even though such oj^inions brought 
but further disturbance of mind — the difficulty 
of deciding upon the proper course of action. — 
the heavy, wearing anxiety — the slow realization 
that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon 
at a distance, might, at a moment, be brought to 
our own doors, — our homes laid waste, and our- 
selves fugitives — all these things live too freshly 
in the minds of us all, to need word of mine to 
recall them. Who can ever forget the pressure 
which weighed down our spirits when we rose on 
that most memorable " Fourth ^^ just passed? — the 
earnestness with which our cry to heaven went up 
for success to our arms — the pause of those long 
morning hours, when the whole city seemed hold- 
ing its breath in terrible suspense — and then the 
grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning 
17 



194 NOTES OF HOS'f'ITAL LIFE. 

flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? 
Did ever language bring more joy than those 
two blessed words, "Meade victorious?" What 
could we do but fall upon our knees, and offer 
up our hearts in thankfulness for such an answer 
to our prayers ? God did that day " take the 
cause into his own hands, and judge between us 
and our enemies," and we were saved. Was it not 
that, as a peoj)le, we had turned to him — as a 
people we had acknowledged the weakness of a 
human arm — as a people we had poured forth our 
hearts in prayer^ and he had heard us ? 

Those w^ere indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. 
Amid all other trials, came the sad thought of our 
poor, wounded men at home. What would be their 
fate ? To leave them for the sake of personal 
safety seemed so base; martyrdom for and with 
them so attractive, — and yet it was not quite clear 
to my mind — much as I longed to aid them — what 
special benefit could accrue to them by self immo- 
lation on the rebel altar. It was a difficult question; 
and yet one always found payment for those anx- 
ious hours, in listening to the earnest promises of 
protection and defence — so evidently sincere — from 
those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far 
outstripping the ability. 

" Don't you fear, ladies, we'll take care of you." 
" We'll fight for you while there's a man of us 
left." 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 195 

"Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in 
our bodies." 

" We'll make earthworks of our bodies before the 
rebs shall touch you, ladies, depend upon that." 

" Only protect yourselves," said I, to a particu- 
larly valiant cripple, who had just expressed similar 
views for us, and slightly derogatory ones to the 
rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our 
city, " only protect yourselves, and I shall be quite 
satisfied." 

"Protect ourselves!" said a poor fellow unable 
to move in his bed; "they'll make mince-meat of 
us, the first thing." 

I found that this "mince-meat" idea took more 
firm possession of my mind than almost any other 
connected with the raid; and one of the greatest 
reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was 
the consciousness that it could not now be put into 
execution. 

The afternoon of the " Fourth," as I entered the 
hospital, the beaming faces and glad congratula- 
tions of the poor fellows, proved how much they 
had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold 
front which they had all presented, with the single 
exception of my "mince -meat" friend. I still 
recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one 
man to whom I spoke of our victory. By some 
strange chance, which I never could explain, he 
had not heard it. 



196 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

"Is that so? Is it really so? That's bully. 
Let's do something!" and, nothing else being at 
hand, he seized his pillow and sent it high into 
the air. 

Eut now come the sad results, which must follow 
alike in the wake of victory or defeat. The wounded, 
where are they ? A battle on our own soil, and at 
so short a distance from us, comparatively speaking, 
must bring them to us more directly from the field 
than any w^e have yet received ; and we have been 
hoping all this week, as they were pouring into the 
city, that we should have our share. 

" Hoping ?" Yes, hoping ; start not at the term, 
I have used it deliberately. Once launched upon 
the sea of hospital life, your views undergo a 
change, and your one interest becomes to receive, 
nurse, and watch the worst cases; it is the hospital 
spirit, and you cannot breathe its air without im- 
bibing the feeling, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, 
Thursday, Friday have passed, Avith only the ad- 
mittance of a few each day, none badly wounded, 
and none requiring special care or tending ; and to 
those whose burning zeal makes them eager to pay 
off some j)art of their debt of gratitude to men, 
who, humanly s]3eaking, have turned the enemy 
from their doors, this is somewhat of a disappoint- 
ment. We have had, to be sure, the pleasure of 
several visits from old friends here, who had been 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 197 

slightly wounded in the fight, and have been 
returned to other hospitals. 

It is Saturday afternoon. I have just seated 
myself in our room for a moment's quiet, after a 
most busy, bustling day, — many sick, and much to 
do, although not exactly what we had wished for. 
M. rushes in, on her return from her dinner. 

" Sitting quietly, I declare, as if nothing was 
going on! Do you know what's at the door?" 

"Nothing different from usual, I presume; you 
needn't try to excite me; I've just taken a seat 
for a five minutes' rest." 

" Go and look for yourself, then, if you are so 
incredulous. Ambulances and stretchers enough, 
I should think, to suit even your taste." 

As I hurry, half doubting, to the door, I meet 
one of our surgeons, paper and pencil in hand, 
talking to one of the wardmasters. 

" How many beds in your ward ? All ready, did 
you say ?' That's right." 

" Plenty of work for the ladies. Miss ; I see 

some pretty bad cases coming in." 

"Just what we wanted, doctor; we have been 
hoping they would come in our week, and it's 
almost over." 

" Time enough, yet, to make them plenty of 
milk punch, and cold drinks. Some of them, I 
notice, are much exhausted, and will need stim- 
ulating." 



198 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

Here was a practical suggestion — something to 
be acted upon at once, and far more useful than 
running to look at them, as they are carried in ; 
so I return quickly, tell M. the doctor's wish, and 
all our pitchers are hastily filled with milk punch, 
iced lemonade, syrup and water, etc., etc. This, of 
course, occujiies some little time -, and as we reach 
the dining-room, — where all are placed who can 
walk, hobble, or crawl, till they are distributed 
into the different wards, while those on stretchers 
are being carried at once to their beds, — I almost 
start at the rough-looking set we suddenly find 
ourselves in the midst of. Are thej^ miners or 
coal-heavers? Black enough and dirty enough 
for either ; and I catch myself repeating over and 
over, " In poverty, hunger, and dirt," etc., till I 
am afraid I shall say it aloud. But what care we 
for dust and dirt ? Set down your pitcher, shake 
hands, and thank them. Is it not Gettysburg dust 
and dirt ? Is it not the dust and dirt of victory ? 
Have not those torn and bullet -riddled clothes 
come straight from the field of their fame ? And 
have they not saved us from distress, wretchedness, 
and ruin? I look at them with reverence; they 
seem to bring the battle so very near that the tears 
will rise, as those torn and dirty bandages show at 
what cost the victory was won. But do not imagine 
me standing all this time in a fine frenzy, meditating 
on the results of a battle. These thoughts slip in. 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 199 

between the filling and emptying of our pitchers, 
and the glad, grateful expressions for the " treat," 
as they call it. Poor fellows ! they shall have our 
best, that is very certain. 

As I am pouring out the last glass from my 
pitcher, my eye is caught by a face, on a stretcher, 
as it is borne past me. It is that of a boy, scarcely 
more than sixteen, I should think. His thick, black 
curls, eyes bright and sparkling, (with fever, it 
must be,) and brilliant color, contrast with his 
remarkably clean shirt and sheet. What can it 
mean, amidst this mass of dirt ? As my work is 
done, I follow him into the ward. 

"You can't have been in the Grettysburg fight, 
my boy, were you?'' 

" I don't know, ma'am, rightly, whether you'd 
call it in it or not ; I was in an ambulance, in the 
rear. I've been in one, following the army, since 
the twenty-first of June ; and it seems pretty good 
to be on a thing that don't move." 

" But why weren't you left in a hospital ?" 

" 'Cause I begged so to go on with the rest. The 
ambulance was going, and I begged them to let me 
go in it, and I promised to be well for the fight ', so 
they took me ; but I got so much worse, I didn't 
know when the fight was; it's the typhoid I've 
got, and my head's dreadful bad." 

" Your hair is so heavy," said I ; " we'll take 



200 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

some of that off and bathe your head, and that 
will relieve it." 

" Oh ! no, ma'am ; no, thank you ; I don't want 
it off." 

" Why not ? It would be much cooler, and do 
you good." 

" Why, I'll soon be well, and it looks so pretty 
when it's fixed !" 

The time has come, since then, when I have 
quite agreed with David; those curls do look 
very "pretty, when they're fixed;" and I am 
glad he pleaded for them so innocently. Let no 
one ever say that vanity is confined to the breast 
of woman ; the result of close observation has 
convinced me that it lives and thrives with tenfold 
greater power in man ; and this little proof of it, 
just uttered with so much simplicity, only confirms 
a preconceived opinion. I do not, however, con- 
fide these views to my new friend, but advising 
him to keep perfectly still, I say goodbye, for the 
present, and pass on. As I hurry down the ward, 
I am struck by the expression of utter contentment 
and quiet, on a strange face — one of the new men, 
evidently; as I come up to the bed where he is 
lying, he seems to me to be actually purring with 
satisfaction. 

" You look as if you were comfortable, my friend," 
said I, " even though you are not very clean." 

" Oh ! the blessing of this bed. If you could 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 201 

know, ma'am, what it was to have been marching: 
twenty miles, whether you could or not, again and 
again, you'd soon feel what it was to be put on a 
bed and let to stay there. Like the South, ma'am, 
I just want 'to be let alone/ I don't the least care 
whether I'm clean or dirty— I'm lying quiet, and I 
am happy." 

"Well, after a bath and clean clothes, which 
they are giving the men as rapidly as possible, 
you shall lie as still as you please ; but I am afraid 
that must come first." 

" Don't think, ma'am," said he, laughing, " that 
I object to either of those things; they've not been 
too plenty where we were, but I just feel now as if 
I never wanted to move again." 

"I can easily understand your feeling; enjoy 
your quiet as long as they will let you, and I will 
bring you some supper, later." 

I left him and hurried over to our room, Avhere 
I found M. busily employed, and hastened to take 
my share in the work. Just at this moment, as 
we were flying about in every direction, now here, 
now there, with a pad for one, a basin and sponge 
to wet wounds for another, cologne for a third, and 
milk punch for a fourth, I felt Dick (our hospital 
dog, my faithful friend and ally, a four-footed 
Yidocq, in his mode of scenting out grievances,) 
seize my dress in his teeth, pull it hard, and look 
eagerly up in my face. " What is it, Dick ? I am 



202 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

too busy to attend to you just now." Another 
hard pull, and a beseeching look in his eyes. 
" Presently, my fine fellow ! presently. Gettys- 
burg men must come first." 

He wags his tail furiously, and still pulls my 
dress. Does he mean that he wants me for one 
of them ? Perhaps so. " Come, Dick, Pll go with 
you." He starts off delighted, leads me to the 
ward where those worst wounded have been placed, 
travels the whole length of it to the upper corner, 
where lies a man apparently badly wounded, and 
crying like a child. I had seen him brought in on 
a stretcher, but in the confusion had not noticed 
where he had been taken. Dick halted, as we 
arrived at the bed, looked at me, as much as to 
say, " There, isn^t that a case requiring attention ?" 
and then, as though quite satisfied to resign him 
into my hands, trotted quietly off. 

I stood a moment to take an observation — to 
make a sort of moral diagnosis before beginning 
my attack — to find out whether the man needed 
direct or indirect sympathy. Yery often, to a 
severely wounded man — not of a nervous tempera- 
ment, but suffering intensely, — a kind word, show- 
ing that you appreciate and enter into that suffer- 
ing, falls on the burning wound with a soothing, 
cooling power, as beneficial, for the instant, as a 
more visible application ; on the wound, I say, for 
the answer is, after a few minutes' conversation, 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 203 

not, " Thank you, I feel better able to bear the 
pain, now;" but, "Thank you, my arm doesn't 
burn as much as it did — my limb isn't so painful 
— my head feels cooler, now." But, on the other 
hand, who that has suffered from unstrung nerves 
does not know that what is most needed in such a 
case, is to divert the mind from itself — to present 
suddenly some other image powerful enough to 
efface from it the impressions of its own wretched 
self — to enable it to rouse itself and rise above the 
weakness it is ashamed of, but has no power to 
conquer? Any allusion to the suffering itself, in 
such a case, only adds fuel to the flame. 

I had time to draw my own conclusions, and soon 
decided that Dick's protege belonged to this latter 
class. He did not notice my approach ; I therefore 
stood watching- him for a little while. His arm 
and hand, from which the bandage had partially 
slipped, were terribly swollen ; the wound was in 
the wrist, (or rather, as I afterwards found, the 
ball had entered the palm of his hand and had 
come out at his wrist,) and appeared to be, as it 
subsequently proved, a very severe one. 

My boast that I could make a pretty good con- 
jecture what State a man came from by looking at 
him, did not avail me here. I was utterly at fault. 
His fair, Saxon face, so far as I could judge of it 
as he lay sobbing on his pillow, had something 
feminine — almost childlike — in the innocence and 



204 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

gentleness of its expression ; and my first thought 
was one which has constantly recurred on closer 
acquaintance, "How utterly unfit for a soldier!" 
He wanted the quick, nervous energy of the New 
Englander, who, even when badly wounded, rarely 
fails to betray his origin ; he had none of the rough 
off-hand dash of our Western brothers, and could 
never have had it, even in health ; nor yet the 
stolidity of our Pennsylvania Germans. No ! it 
was clear that I must wait till he chose to enlighten 
me as to his home. After a few minutes' study, 1 
was convinced that his tears were not from the 
pain of his wound 3 there was no contraction of 
the brow, no tension of the muscles, no quivering 
of the frame; he seemed simply very weary, very 
languid, like a tired child, and I resolved to act 
accordingly. 

" I have been so busy with our defenders, this 
afternoon,'^ said I, " that I have had no time to 
come and thank you.'' 

He started, raised his tear-stained face, and said, 
with a wondering air, " To thank me ? For what ?" 

" For what ?" said I ; '• haven't you been keeping 
' the rebels away from us ? Don't you know that if 
it hadn't been for you and many like j^ou, we might 
at this moment have been flying from our homes, 
and General Lee and his men occupying our city? 
You don't seem to know how grateful we are to 
you — we feel as though we could never do enough 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 205 

for our brave Gettysburg men to return what they 
have done for us." 

This seemed quite a novel idea, and the tears 
were stopped to muse upon it. 

" We tried to do our duty, ma'am, I know that." 

"I know it too, and I think I could make a 
pretty good guess what corps you belong to. Sup- 
pose I try. Wasn't it the Second Corps ? You 
look to me like one of General Hancock's men ; 
you know they were praised in the papers for 
their bravery. Am I right?" 

The poor tired face brightened instantly. The 
random shot had hit the mark. 

"Yes, Second Corps. Did you know by my 
cap?" 

" Your cap ? You don't wear your cap in bod, 
do you? I haven't seen your cap; I guessed by 
that wound — it must have been made where there 
was pretty hard fighting, and I knew the Second 
Corps had done their share of that." 

But this was dangerous ground, as I felt the 
moment the allusion to his wound was made ; the 
sympathy was too direct, and his eyes filled at 
once. Seeing my mistake, I plunged off rapidly 
on another tack. 

" Did you notice my assistant orderly who came 
in with me just now ? He had been over to see 
you before, for he came and told me you wanted 
me." 

18 



206 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LITE. 

"I wanted you! No, ma'am; that's a mistake; 
no one's been near me since they bathed me, and 
gave me clean clothes — I know there hasn't, for I 
watched them running all about; but none came 
to me, and I want so much to have my arm dressed." 
And the ready tears once more began to flow. 

" There is no mistake. I told you that my assist- 
ant orderly came to me in the ladies' room, and 
told me that you needed me. Think again — who 
has been here since you were brought in?" 

" Not a single soul, ma'am, — indeed, not a thing, 
but a dog, standing looking in my face, and wag- 
ging his tail, as if he was pitying me." 

" But a dog ! Exactly ; he's my assistant orderly; 
he came over to me, pulled my dress, and wouldn't 
rest till I came to see after you. I am surprised 
you speak so slightingly of poor Dick." 

Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I 
entered at large upon Dick's merits; his fondness 
for the men — his greater fondness, occasionally, 
for their dinners — his having made way with three 
lunches just prepared for men who were starting— 
(the result, probably, of having heard the old story 
that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) 
our finding him one day on our table with his head 
in a pitcher of lemonade, and how I had tried to 
explain to him that such was not the best way of 
proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but 
I feared without much effect — in short, I made a 



NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 207 

long story out of nothing, till the wardmaster 
arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor's 
orders were that the new cases should all take 
something to eat before he examined their wounds. 
My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in 
listening to Dick's varied talents, and allowed mo 
to give him his supper very quietly, as I found he 
was really too much exhausted even to raise his 
uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure 
of seeing him smile for goodbye, and having given 
him rather more time than I could spare, hurried 
away, with a promise of seeing him the next day 
(Sunday), for they were too ill not to be watched. 

But oh I for a little more daylight ! It is getting 
so dark, and yet I must stop and make acquaint- 
ance with each new face — or rather, I long to do 
so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear 
blue eyes, over there — just what the French call 
" les yeux de velours I" — I cannot surely pass them 
without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. 
What a contrast their owner presents to poor Still- 
well, my tearful friend, whom I have just left. A 
sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light 
hair, and something very winning in his open, 
frank expression, which attracts you to him at 
once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded 
that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look 
on the bright side of everything. 



208 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

" You doB't look as though you were suffering 
much; I hope you're not badly wounded." 

What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends 
his hand to me at once ! 

''Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; 
it's pretty painful, but I guess I'll be all right in a 
few days." 

How little could I imagine, from his words, what 
I found out a few days later, that I was standing 
at that moment by one of the very worst wounds 
that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told 
me that he considered it a most critical case, and 
that, had the shot gone one half inch further, it 
must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that 
Dick and I between us, had discovered the two 
most severely wounded men in the whole hospital. 
For many weeks after that they were dangerously 
ill, requiring close and careful watching every hour, 
but rewarding us in the end with the hope of per- 
fect recovery. 

" I am glad to hear it," said I, in answer to his 
too sanguine view of his wound, "for you don't 
look as if you had seen much sickness, and maj^be 
you wouldn't bear it very well." 

" I've never been a day in bed in my life before 
this, and I hardly know what to make of it. I'm 
an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in the 
open air, and I couldn't stand being shut up here 
at all ; it's as bad as the Libby prison." 



NOTES OP HOSPITAL LIFE. 



209 



Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the 
Libby prison ! 

" Oh ! you mustn't say that ; we try to do every- 
thing here to make the confinement as easy as 
possible to the men, and to help them to forget 
that it is a hospital. I'm sure you can't have 
been in the 'Libby' ever, have you?" 

"Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as 
bad to me to be fastened in here." 

" Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some 
of our men who have been there; let them talk to 
you and give you their experience, and then, when 
you know us better, I will ask you whether you 
still think the same. But now I must really say 
good-night. I will come to the ' prison/ to-morrow, 
to see how you all are." 

"Thank you; you'll be very welcome; and 
maybe," added he, laughing, " it won't seem so 
like it when I get at home here;" and once more 
extending his hand, he said " good-night." 

So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, 
which followed the glorious Gettysburg fight. 

The tide of war has rolled back from our homes ; 
the highly strung nerves are calmed; the dead 
sleep in the quiet graves which a people's love has 
provided for them on the field of their fame ; the 
wounded, so lately massed in our midst, are scat- 
tered ; some — too few, alas ! — returned, cured, to 
their regiments; others (the saddest part of the 
• 18* 



210 NOTES OF HOSPITAL LIFE. 

war) discharged from service, disabled and crippled 
for life; while for the remainder, listen to the 
words of that pale boy — as I raise his head to 
give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music 
fall on my ear. 

'' What is that, Henry ?'' 

" What is that, do you ask. Miss ? That is 

only some of our poor Gettysburg boys going home;" 
and I recognize the dead march, and I see the 
reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by. 

Time has gone on; new faces, new forms, have 
filled the places of the old ones, and still our labors, 
our hopes^ our Prayers, continue for our dear and 
bleeding country -, still continues, also, our abiding 
faith and trust in the ultimate triumph of the right; 
and, leaving the event in Higher Hands, fearlessly 
we abide the issue. 



THE END, 



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